


A Long Way to Go Before We Are Truly Divine by Staraflur

by staraflur



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Box of Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staraflur/pseuds/staraflur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is content, but not exactly happy, in Ealdor, so when his mother's friend Gaius' shows up with a tale of dragons under castles and priestesses and an exiled prince, Merlin is thrilled to listen. The reality, however, isn't so great: the priestess is a killer, the prince is a prat, and the dragon sure does have some curious ideas about them. But Gaius is saying it's Merlin responsibility -- destiny, even -- to help Arthur win back his kingdom, and to evade all the forces amassing against him on the way. This would, of course, be a whole lot easier if he could stand to be in the same village as Arthur for enough time for them to stop arguing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Way to Go Before We Are Truly Divine by Staraflur

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost (of course), thanks to Alice for having the time to read through the whole monstrous monstrosity. Also thanks to Erika, Jacqui, Ellie, Katy, C-liss and Katharina for their additional help in various capacities. You guys kept me from a slow and painful death by second-guessing myself until my whole brain was gone. Also, to the various sets of people who volunteered to look it it over and cheerlead at all the times in which I was crippled by self doubt, thank you. Unless this sucks, and then NO THANKS for not telling me! :p
> 
> I am writing this before I've actually seen the art, but I am so excited for it! In my preliminary stalking I was really impressed and I can't wait to see that you do! Thanks/worship/cookies forever to Madelyn for organizing this box of awesome. In the interest of tradition, I shall say that obviously this is work done for no profit and obviously if I owned the rights to these characters then season two would be, well, quite a thing to watch.

When Arthur rose back to consciousness, it was to the familiar cant of a galloping horse, like the final breakneck stretch of a satisfying hunt. He subconsciously adjusted his body, squeezing his thighs in to raise his torso, and tightened his fingers on the reins.

 

Only his fingers clenched in on themselves, themselves and a bunched length of rope that lashed his arms in an awkward circle around another body. He was similarly tied around the waist and thighs. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable for Arthur, and must have been much worse for his companion, but Arthur couldn’t imagine he was restrained by choice, so he didn’t consider the rider when he tensed further, bracing himself for an attempt to unseat them both.

 

“Sire!” gasped the man, and Arthur stilled, bemused by the voice of Pellinore, one of his most trusted knights.

 

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded. “Why-”

 

But then he remembered, remembered it all backwards like a riddle. The impact as Morgana, of all people, swung a sheathed sword at his head. Several of his knights dragging him through the stable, through the armoury, out of the courtyard where his father stood with only a few of his closest companions, against a force that was smaller but held magic on its side, a force Uther could not hope to defeat.

 

A force Arthur couldn’t face with him. Instead, Arthur had been sent away with feeble old Gaius, Morgana’s handmaiden Gwen, and her father the blacksmith.

 

He struggled as the memories took hold and the old emotions flooded in as well, despair for his father and for being judged inadequate to help, hatred for the cabal of sorcerers who, unprincipled and proving the lack of honour and order his father had always preached, attacked the castle itself without warning.

 

“Please, my lord, we promised,” his knight told him, voice strained. “We promised the king we wouldn’t let you go back.”

 

Morgana appeared beside them, guiding her horse with a display of skill generally considered showy in a woman. “Arthur, please. There’s nothing you can do for Uther now.”

 

Arthur could not blame the knights for following the king’s orders, but he would have expected Morgana to understand why he railed.

 

“You just left him!” he yelled back at her, trying to twist his arms free but only unsettling the horse, already pushed to the brink of exhaustion. “All of you, you just left him! And Camelot, for those cursed wizards!”

 

“What could we have done, Arthur? None of us can fight a sorcerer, and if we all die trying we’ll never be able to save Camelot.”

 

Pellinore brought the horse to a slow halt and began slicing through the cords around Arthur, who kept his gaze on Morgana as she too stopped. He noticed her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, a rare sign of weakness from her, and realised that while this was Arthur’s second time losing a parent, it was in fact her third. Her knuckles were blanched on the reins of her fine dun mare but her shoulders and mouth were held strong.

 

“It’s what Uther wanted, Arthur. For Camelot, and… And for you. He wanted you to live.”

 

Arthur twisted as Pellinore severed the rope around his torso, and as soon as one leg was cut free he wrenched out of the saddle, unable to find it in himself to be patient. He nearly collapsed on landing anyway, his body sore and asleep after being restrained for so long. Stretching his limbs to work the blood back through, he took stock of his small company: Morgana and Gwen; Gwen’s father; Gaius the physician; a small group of castle maids, stewards and cooks; six of his knights and two squires. All told they were approaching thirty, and Arthur quailed at trying to understand how they would all be fed and kept and clothed. It was still late spring, so they had months before they would feel a serious need for shelter, but even in the interim they would be pressed.

 

“Where are we going?” he asked Morgana.

 

“A village just over the eastern border,” she answered. “Gaius has friends there and he thinks it would serve well as a base camp. We’ll arrive there tomorrow.”

 

Someone had remembered to bring Arthur’s charger Aherne, and he was rather pathetically grateful to hear its affectionate whicker as he grabbed the saddle.

 

“Shouldn’t we keep going,” he said pointedly, not a question so much as an order. Was that his first order as the King of Camelot, fled in fear?

 

Morgana came closer. “Gaius seems to think we may not need so much haste. He thinks you’re not the focus of Nimueh’s attack, and that she’ll leave you until after. ”

 

_After what_? he could not ask. After she tortured and killed his father? After she terrorised the poor citizens of Camelot?

 

“No,” he decided. “We’re leaving.”

 

They arrived at Gaius’ mystery destination the next day, a quiet forested area just across the jagged ridge of Aesctir. They passed near a tiny hamlet in which Gaius apparently knew someone; he slipped away to visit while the rest of their small party found a suitable area to set up a temporary camp. Arthur almost resented Gaius this comfort, a person to see who had no connection to Camelot, but he recognised the expression of grief clouding the physician’s face. Gaius had been his father’s advisor for as long as Arthur could remember. Short of a handful of knights and noblemen who had fought alongside his father in the past, most of whom were now dead, Gaius was probably the closest thing Uther had to a friend.

 

Arthur had a plan: they would stay here for a few days, allow everyone time to grieve properly and adjust as well as they could to their new lives, then move on, take temporary sanctuary in an allied kingdom while he built up an army to retake his country. Of course, Arthur had little idea of how to build up the army or even where would be the best place to go, but he was set. If his father was truly dead, he was king now, and he couldn’t have anyone second-guessing his decisions, least of all himself.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin and Will wound their way back to Ealdor, arms laden with leaves and shoots they’d stripped from the flora. The forest provided herbs for cooking as well as medicinal ends, and food if you knew how to look. Merlin had learned young, for while he and his mother didn’t need much, he tried to pitch in whenever he could. Additionally, being alone in the woods gave him both time and opportunity to let his mind loose and see what he could do with his hand out and his eyes flashing hot.

 

He’d sworn to his mother that he wouldn’t tell anyone, though he couldn’t imagine keeping it from Will for much longer. Will told him everything, how he felt ashamed of his father’s liveried tunic sitting unused in his home while Will grew up tilling fields and foraging, how he had traumatising sex dreams about Bertha, the baker’s wife.

 

The sky was streaked rosy as he bade Will goodbye, after listening half-heartedly to Will describe a conversation he had overheard between said baker’s wife – with whom Merlin thought Will was developing an unfortunate, sex-dream-induced obsession – and one of the farmers. Will had concocted several interpretations for what seemed to be innocuous words, from a conspiracy to poison Amos Black’s chickens to predictions for this year’s rainy season.

 

Merlin hung the herbs that needed to be dried around the side of the house that got the most sunlight and pushed open the door, hands full of onions, to find his mother deep in conversation with a man Merlin had never seen before. Both looked intent and disturbed, talking quietly with their heads angled together. They jerked apart when Merlin banged the onions onto the table.

 

They didn’t try to look innocent, which was both relieving and distressing. Merlin didn’t want to be treated like a child, but for Hunith to let her concern show to her son there must have been a large problem.

 

He crossed to put a supporting hand on his mother’s shoulder.

 

“What do you want?” he asked, modulating his tone to show he wouldn’t let this old man threaten his mother.

 

His mother put her own hand over his. “It’s all right, dear. This is my old friend Gaius. I’ve read you his letters before. He lives in Camelot, remember?”

 

Merlin did remember, and he knew he probably looked ridiculous going from a glare to a welcoming smile in one instant. He’d always enjoyed hearing about bustling Camelot and the various maladies and accidents that befell its citizens. It was all fascinating, and so different from small, contained Ealdor, whose epic story would be nothing but a summary of harvests and deaths from natural causes. He’d never actually seen Gaius, but he couldn’t help but feel that he was almost family.

 

“Of course. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

 

The man stood to shake his hand. He was old, older than Merlin’s mother and much older than Merlin had expected, with a dignified expression and white hair. He wore robes; obviously he didn’t pass much time in manual labour or physical pursuits.

 

“To be truthful, we have met before, Merlin, but it’s been many years and I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I was just telling your mother why I am here, and I confess I had forgotten how old you would be; I didn’t mean to exclude you. If you’ll permit, Hunith, I’ll tell Merlin the same.”

 

At Hunith’s nod, he continued, “I took on the position of court physician to King Uther of Camelot when you were a small child. Previously I had worked in the city itself, and before about twenty years ago, I wasn’t just a physician. I worked as a sorcerer as well, though one of small power and narrow focus.”

 

This revelation was a shock to Merlin, who in all his talks with his mother had never been told that she knew others like him.

 

“At that time, a great tragedy befell Uther, and he outlawed magic from Camelot. Nay, he did not just labour to outlaw it, he purged it, tried to wipe its existence and all signs of it from his land. He exiled or killed the sorcerers who did not leave and slaughtered all magical beasts he could find. Most people in Camelot are now scared of magic.”

 

“But –” Merlin made to interrupt, but his mother hushed him with one raised hand. His heart was pounding and his stomach tight with excitement.

 

“A few of those who could use magic just disappeared, abandoning their positions and lands. Uther let them go, but he has always remained wary of their return and very suspicious of unnatural occurrences in his own kingdom. Several days ago, a pair of powerful and vengeful magic users attacked Camelot. Uther and a handful of his knights went to face them alone, which allowed us time to escape.”

 

“Us?”

 

“Yes. Uther made it clear that his last command was for a handful of his knights to remove his son, Prince Arthur, from the city, under duress if necessary, along with his ward the Lady Morgana, and for Arthur to return only when he could win Camelot back.”

 

“So Uther, he died?”

 

Gaius’ face was heavy with grief. “I can only imagine so.”

 

“How old is Arthur?” Merlin asked, hoping, for their sakes, for a properly aged royal with lots of battle experience. Camelot and Cendred had only made peace within Merlin’s lifetime; he remembered the parade of people made homeless by the war. Perhaps Arthur had fought in that campaign.

 

“He’s not yet twenty-one.”

 

Well, there went that hope. “And he’s the only prince?”

 

“He is. His mother died in childbirth.”

 

“Can he do it?” Had they come here to take permanent refuge?

 

Gaius took a deep breath. “Not on his own, no. Nimueh is a sorceress of considerable power and experience. I didn’t see the man she had with her, but he has some skill manipulating fire. Magical fire is almost impossible to control without considerable experience.”

 

Merlin wondered if he was supposed to volunteer here and now, if this was to be his one chance to make something of his powers, the night he’d forever regret if he just let it pass. These sorcerers were like villains out of a story, and here Gaius was discussing them with Merlin like they were a common occurrence.

 

He opened his mouth to confess, to say _he_ could do it, that he’d set a huge elm tree in the forest on fire once and had to put it out himself, but he looked over at his mother first, and the look on her face stopped him.

 

“Mum, what’s wrong?”

 

She smiled at him, but the sadness didn’t leave her eyes. “It’s nothing, Merlin. Don’t mind me.”

 

“I’m ready to turn in,” Gaius announced, and Merlin tried to talk to his mother after the physician had retired, but she insisted there was no problem until she too begged off for sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

The next morning when Merlin got up to do his chores as usual, he found Gaius already awake, carefully preparing some of the herbs Merlin gathered the night before.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Merlin told him.

 

“Of course, but I’d like to help out as I can. I’ll be going soon, but I have to say this is comfrey of unusual quality. If I help you for a bit would you be willing to use the extra time to show me where you gathered it?”

 

Merlin was more than willing. Not only did the work go quickly with an extra set of hands, but Gaius was knowledgeable and competent, a bit stern but everything Merlin imagined a man of a city would be. He was surprised at the details Merlin remembered of his letters, and did his best to provide updates on what the city was now like – or had been, for who knew what changes had been wrought.

 

It was strange to think that the displaced royalty of what had formerly been their feared neighbour to the west were hiding in their woods. When Merlin said as much, Gaius looked at him a little strangely.

 

“I firmly believe Arthur has every intention of returning to Camelot and winning it back, though he doesn’t understand what he faces. He is young and impetuous, but he does care about the people of Camelot, and he will fight for them.”

 

“If his father killed so many people,” Merlin asked, troubled, trying to disguise the weight of his question by concentrating very hard on sweeping, “was he really a good king? How are you so sure these sorcerers will be poor rulers?”

 

“I don’t think they plan on being rulers at all. They took Camelot as an act of revenge. They care naught for its citizens or its well-being. Arthur will.”

 

Merlin wasn’t convinced. He hadn’t meant to speak ill of the dead, but Uther’s crusade against sorcerers cut close to Merlin’s own fears and he was unable to sympathise with this murderer he had never known.

 

Into Merlin’s silence, Gaius said, “This seems sufficient for the morning, but I’d really like to see that comfrey before I return. I’m sure some of our company could use the relief.”

 

“All right,” Merlin agreed. “I could just bring you some later, though. It’s quite far.”

 

Gaius had a wry, amused smile that Merlin immediately found warming. “I think these old bones can still manage a walk through the forest, if that’s what you’re trying to imply.”

 

Spring’s morning air still held a bit of chill, which by midsummer Merlin would be wistfully imagining. He thought of waking Will before he recalled that Gaius was supposed to be a somewhat secret presence. Moreover, he wasn’t sure Will would be as impressed by the physician’s tales as Merlin was himself.

 

After the furthest pastures had been obscured by forest and the lowing cows could no longer be heard, Gaius turned to Merlin with a more serious look, the same look he had worn last night when Merlin first saw him.

 

“I am going to be completely truthful with you, Merlin. I’ve been talking to your mother about you. She told me about when you were four and you sent your turnips into the privy to avoid eating them, and about the time you fell out of a tree but didn’t hit the ground until you’d had time to right yourself.”

 

Merlin went a little cold as his worst secret was laid out like a discussion on the week’s weather, but it was mostly an instinctual reaction. Gaius’ tone was relaxed, not the accusatory anger and fear his mother had taught him to expect. He stopped, watching the old doctor warily in case his casual tone belied his intent.

 

“There’s a dragon under the castle,” Gaius continued. Merlin smiled involuntarily, at how fantastical it was that a king who hated all magic would keep a dragon, at how the very fact was so unfathomable that it fit in with he had imagined of the world outside his small town.

 

“It’s been there for nearly twenty years. Uther killed all those he could find, but he kept this one in captivity, I think because it was the most grand, and perhaps as some sort of trophy. I also think the dragon worked some magic of his own to stay alive; he says his mortal errands are not yet through. For many years I avoided it. Uther forbade anyone to go near it, and mounted a guard before its grotto. I think over time even they forgot what they were guarding.

 

“Several weeks ago, it began speaking to me, directly into my mind, through all the stories and walls separating us. It summoned me.”

 

A great feeling rose in Merlin’s breast, anticipation and desire and a little fear, because somehow he knew that whatever was coming next was _important_, was going to change his life in a way he’d always wanted but been unable to really acknowledge, on his own in a tiny town and not wanting to leave his mother alone.

 

Later he would wonder if that feeling was not a bit more immediately portentous, as before Gaius could explain what Merlin desperately wanted to hear, there came a slight crush of undergrowth. From behind a tree Merlin would have sworn was too small to hide a person hurtled a figure in red and brown, a figure who rushed past Gaius to tackle Merlin to the ground and press him down with one fine boot while holding an even finer sword to his neck.

 

“Are you all right, Gaius? You haven’t been hurt?” the man – young, well-dressed -- asked calmly, hard eyes never leaving Merlin’s face and sword never wavering.

 

“Are you bloody mad?” asked Merlin. “No one was hurting anyone until you burst in waving that sword around!” When he tried to squirm up, the stranger pressed down harder and narrowed his eyes.

 

“I’m quite all right, sire.”

 

Merlin ignored the ‘sire’ part in favour of the more immediate concern of removing pointy bits from the vicinity of his jugular. “Can I get up now?” he demanded.

 

“Are you quite sure?” said the gigantic arse of a stranger, nonchalant. He was arcing the point of his sword in little half-circles a hairsbreadth from Merlin’s neck, and if he ever actually had been concerned for Gaius’ safety, he obviously wasn’t now. His blue eyes looked over Merlin casually, a glint in them that actually seemed to be _amusement_.

 

“Yes, of course, sire. Now, I had several plans for Merlin if you ever decide he poses no immediate threat to my person. I stayed with his family last night and Merlin brought back some herbs I believe will be of particular help to us. We were on our way there when you found us, perhaps you’d like to come as well?”

 

“You know him, then?”

 

“I’ve known him his entire life, your highness.”

 

His highness Prince Arthur – for it could be no other -- paused a little longer, obviously for no other purpose than to keep Merlin squirming on his back in the dirt, before he sheathed his sword with an unnecessary flourish and stepped back.

 

“Do you know these woods well?” he asked, imperious.

 

“I’ve lived here my whole life, what do you think?” Merlin bit back, scrambling to his feet and eyeing his dirty clothes ruefully.

 

“Well,” Arthur returned, with one contemptuous raised eyebrow. “If that’s the case, you’ve just been ambushed in your own backyard. Is that how they raise you around here?”

 

“_Around here_, we don’t exactly need to fear ambushing, except apparently by big-headed refugee _princes_—”

 

“I’m not a _refugee_!”

 

“Merlin, please,” said Gaius calmly, making it clear with the sweep of his eyes under one raised brow that he was including Arthur in the rebuke. “I should like to get back in time to put the comfrey to good use.”

 

Still a little miffed, Merlin led them back to where he and Will had gathered the comfrey the previous day. Gaius was instantly absorbed, keeping his gaze to the ground as circled a particularly thick growth.

 

Merlin had meant to help, but he kept getting distracted by Arthur, who didn’t offer any assistance. He chose instead to prowl the undergrowth like a stalking cat, hand near the hilt of his sword.

 

“You’ve really got nothing to fear,” he informed Arthur after the prince appeared next to him, apparently satisfied with the perimeter of this particular croft. “The people who attacked Camelot don’t know you’re here, do they? Did they follow you?”

 

“Who knows what sorcerers can do?” asked Arthur. “My father has been proven correct; they’re always capable of the worst.”

 

“What could you even do against them with a sword?”

 

Arthur drew the blade in question, holding it straight in front of him and keeping his eyes glued to the centre like the was staring down the blood channel. For all his obvious strength and ferocity, he looked like a lost, grieving boy, and Merlin felt guilty for letting himself be goaded into his outbursts.

 

“Maybe not much,” Arthur admitted. “But there’s nothing in just giving up, and I’ll do whatever I can to avenge my father.” His hand dropped, eyes turning to the forest floor.

 

Merlin looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About your father.” When he glanced back, he saw that Arthur was looking at him, face a little surprised and also a little wary.

 

Before Merlin could try to comprehend what that face meant, Gaius returned, arms full of such an amount of comfrey that Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if their whole party was suffering from suppurating wounds.

 

“This should be enough for now. I’d like to get back to everyone and begin treatment, but Merlin, I’ll have a need for other supplies soon. Can I count on your assistance tomorrow morning?”

 

“Of course,” Merlin said. He would be glad to have another chance to talk to Gaius in private.

 

“Excellent. Your highness, would you be able to accompany me back to the others? I confess I am quite lost.”

 

When they left, Arthur didn’t give so much as a goodbye, just another strange stare. Merlin took the long way home. He climbed a tree and waited a while, watching the sun crawl across the sky and reflecting on how very different the past day had been from everything he’d previously experienced.

 

He knew he should be more wary of Arthur. His words from earlier had made his opinions on magic and sorcerers quite clear. Merlin didn’t know if he was a magician, but he wasn’t sure Arthur would care to make a distinction. However, he could definitely sympathise with him, a young man who had just lost the only parent he’d ever known, his home and his future all at once. Expecting reason would be a little, well, unreasonable.

 

While Arthur was obviously a bit of an arrogant, standoffish berk, Merlin knew he would be a fool to write him off after one meeting, especially when Gaius seemed to have such confidence in him.

 

Especially in light of whatever Gaius had been about to tell him, something of dragons under castles and magic. Something Merlin knew would change everything.

 

 

* * *

 

Arthur thought about what Merlin had said all the way back to their makeshift camp. The boy was right, there wasn’t anything Arthur could do against the force that occupied his country, the force that had probably killed his father. He refused to believe they were invincible, though. They were flesh and blood, they could be killed.

 

All he needed was allies. Fortunately, his father had spent the past twenty years of his life – since Arthur had been born and his wife had died, since he had devoted himself solely to statecraft and the eradication of magic – forging alliances with their neighbours. He had signed treaties with practically all, with the notable exception of Bayard of Mercia, whose favourable opinion of magic could not be swayed.

 

He was pleased to see his knights had kept busy while he’d gone after Gaius, sheltering the main part of their camp with a mass of branches. Tom was seeing to the weapons and armour, while the former members of the castle staff had actually banded into some semblance of their old ranks: laundry maids and cooks’ assistants and stable boys bustling.

 

The knights noticed his signal to gather, without fuss, in an area out of hearing range but still visible to the rest of their party.

 

“I’m going to Cendred tomorrow,” Arthur told them. “We’ll need allies to free Camelot and father has maintained a relationship with Cendred for years. I’d like two or three of you to stay here with the others, and the rest with me. I’m going hard, so if you’re injured, stay here.”

 

This was the first true test of their loyalty to _him_. They’d followed him from the city on his father’s orders, but they could choose now to decide those orders didn’t extend to Arthur’s own whims, and then he’d be truly on his own.

 

“I’m with you,” said Pellinore, stepping forward.

 

“I as well,” said Gareth. “But Gawain should stay, he has a broken rib.”

 

Arthur nodded in agreement. It was a bit impertinent of Gareth to volunteer the information, but a valuable thing for Arthur to know.

 

“If no one else needs to stay, I would like to as well.”

 

Arthur looked at Cador, waiting for the explanation.

 

Gareth snickered. “He’s taken a fancy to one of the maids. Got to protect her himself.”

 

Cador reddened a bit but smiled as the rest of the knights laughed, ribbing him good-naturedly. It felt a little like home, like the morning after a feast when half of their time was spent boasting about who had left with whom and what had happened afterwards.

 

To this Arthur nodded. “All right. That means Pellinore, Gareth, Bors and Kay, you’re with me. Let Tom know if you need anything specific, you take precedence. Gaius will help you first, as well.”

 

The swelling feeling of accomplishment, of _doing something_ filled him up as they returned to the others.

 

 

* * *

 

They left first thing in the morning, as promised, Gaius’ eyebrow arched disapprovingly. Morgana had tried to talk to him in the night, with some sort of vague explanation that she had a bad feeling about Cendred, that he should concentrate his efforts here. She could not, however, tell him what here in the woods would help him.

 

He realised, as they rode into the chilly dawn light and the forest gave way to plains and tilled fields, then a narrow but well-used road, that he had been too terse with her. He did not want to be a king who ruled with a foolish stubbornness and enforced his word with violence, but he also couldn’t have Morgana questioning him now, when he needed every bit of authority he could get.

 

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, Merlin,” said Gaius.

 

Merlin grinned and waved with the hand that wasn’t full of chicken feed.

 

“Do you have many more chores? I was hoping you could help me locate some blackberries and feverfew.”

 

“Oh, no, he can go after this!” called Hunith from inside, where she was peeling some old vegetables to start a soup stock. This wasn’t really true, so Merlin was especially grateful. She would never have let him cut out of chores to go out with Will, even with a purpose. Then again, his mother always had though Will a bad influence.

 

Gaius had appeared on the back of a fine grey mare, which seemed content to graze outside their home. He hoped it wouldn’t call unwanted attention; it was conspicuously of a better quality than any of the livestock form the village.

 

While Gaius did have a need for the feverfew, it was apparent he also wanted to continue their discussion from the previous day, for which Merlin was glad.

 

“Would you like to know what the dragon has been telling me?” he asked when they had delved far into the woods. Merlin, overcome, could only nod, he hoped not too enthusiastically, as his heart quickened.

 

“I’m glad,” said Gaius with a small smile. “For you see, you are at the heart of the matter.”

 

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked.

 

The dragon has been telling me some of what he knows about destiny. He is quite convinced that you have a large one.”

 

“So, something like growing the biggest turnip at the next fair?”

 

Gaius chuckled. “Not unless you plan on growing it magically and using it to help unite all of Albion in peace.”

 

“Well, I’d probably have to use magic, I’ve never been able to grow anything but grass,” Merlin joked, to cover up the drop in his belly, the swell in his throat.

 

“Then it’s probably good the dragon says your skills lies elsewhere.”

 

Merlin could laugh a little at that, though really he wanted to understand what Gaius was going to tell him, not crack little quips about it.

 

“Can you show me something?” Gaius asked. “Something magical, I mean.”

 

Merlin nodded, surveying the area for something that would be impressive but not dangerous. He raised an arm towards a particularly thick crop of small box trees, bending their branches into a latticed arch.

 

Gaius watched him, first, one eyebrow going up as he noted Merlin’s eyes, and then he turned to view Merlin’s work.

 

“Will it stay like that?”

 

Merlin tilted his head, narrowing his focus on the entwined flora. Another slight twist of his hand, and he nodded.

 

“I think they’ll just grow like that, now.”

 

“Where did you learn to do such a thing?”

 

Merlin shrugged. “It’s just something I can do. I can move things, and I can slow time. Some other things.”

 

“And no one’s ever taught you anything? A traveller? You’ve read no books?” When Merlin shook his head, he continued asking questions. “Your eyes, do they always flash like that?”

 

“As far as I’m aware, but obviously I don’t really know. I saw it once by chance, a reflection in the pond. Sometimes I think I can almost feel it, if I’m doing something difficult, but I don’t know for sure.”

 

“This is something I’ve never encountered before,” Gaius told him gravely. “Every sorcerer, and there used to be many, is born with a different level of natural aptitude for magic, and with certain skills that can be honed, but only through careful practice and study. To see you do that with no spells and no tutoring, well, it’s almost enough to make me believe everything the dragon said about you.”

 

Of course, Merlin wanted the details of everything a dragon he’d never seen had said about him, but instead he asked, “So, if not with turnips, then how am I supposed to unite Albion?”

 

“Well, I’ve been told you’re going to do it with Arthur, and that with your help he’ll be the greatest king the land has ever had.”

 

The bottom had just dropped of this scenario. “Arthur?” Merlin echoed. “From yesterday, with the sword and the leaping out of bushes and knocking people in the dirt?”

 

“The very one.”

 

“Well, obviously this dragon is mistaken, or perhaps joking, because I’m certainly not going to hand the whole place over to the biggest prat I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

 

“You shouldn’t judge him so summarily, especially based on a single encounter you had with him after he’d practically watched his father die and then spent the next two days making sure everyone who’d escaped with him was safe and healthy.”

 

A little chastised, particularly since he’d told himself as much the night before, Merlin still thought this one of the more ludicrous things he’d ever heard. “I’m sure he’s not the worst noble in the world, but to say he’s going to be the greatest king _ever_, well, that’s a bit much.”

 

“Arthur has much room to grow, as I think you’ll find out.”

 

“What makes you so sure of that? I think he made it quite clear yesterday what he thought of me.”

 

“As your opinion changes, I’m sure his will, too. You must allow him some leeway; you don’t exactly fit into the mould of any of the people he’s encountered so far: servants, knights, courtiers and nobles.

 

“I know the timing is rather strange, but I’d like to take you on as my assistant. You know your way around the basic healing herbs, which is more than I can say for most. I’ve not asked your mother yet, but she told me that she’s been thinking of sending you to me, anyway.”

 

Merlin hadn’t heard anything of the sort, and said as much.

 

“I would imagine she didn’t know how you’d react,” Gaius told him.

 

In truth, Merlin didn’t, either. While it would certainly have been exciting to go to Camelot, to see everything he’d read about, he wouldn’t have wanted to leave his mother alone, even in a village as safe as Ealdor. She was lonely enough already, he didn’t plan on hurting her further.

 

He was quiet as they took what they needed from the undergrowth, working mechanically, mind elsewhere. When Gauis asked if he’d be willing to accompany him back, it took him practically the whole way to realise Gaius had meant his own camp, not Merlin’s home.

 

“What for?” he asked, curious.

 

“I’m afraid I’m accompanied by quite a collection of people who have lived their whole lives in a city, telling people or being told by others how to run life in a castle. We could do with some advice, and some organisation.”

 

A knight wearing the same red doublet as Arthur had rounded in on them as they approached, ascertained that Gaius trusted Merlin not to betray them to the nearest sorcerer – Merlin still didn’t really know how to react every time he saw one of these exiles from Camelot say that with such ire – and then disappeared again. Apparently he’d been taking lessons in being abrupt from Arthur, but he was having considerably more difficulty moving silently through the layers of leaves and brush.

 

After that, they received only shy glances from a bevy of young women and more evaluating looks from the men. Everyone seemed to be looking busy, but not actually doing anything.

 

“I don’t really think they know what to do,” Gaius confessed when Merlin pointed it out. “They’re used to a hierarchy and a routine of daily tasks, and now with Arthur gone—”

 

“Arthur’s gone?” Merlin was shocked to hear that, after all Gaius’ conviction that Arthur would be a responsible leader. Where on earth had he gone, anyway?

 

“It is my understanding that he rode off this morning, intending to ask King Cendred for assistance.” Ah. Merlin could have told him not to expect much.

 

“Do you think he’ll get it?”

 

“I’m not sure. From what I understand of him, he likes to savour his power and belittle others; if he does decide to help, it won’t be immediately as Arthur wants.”

 

Merlin thought about that, about being faced with a pompous, fat king – the same king who’d never come anywhere near Ealdor, as far as he knew, who only sent tax collectors around when he found one willing to leave the cosseting circle of brothels and pubs surrounding the cities – who held the possibility of revenge for your parent, of rescue for your people, but who enjoyed watching you squirm and plead too much to grant you it.

 

“That will be horrible,” he decided.

 

“Exactly,” said Gaius in heated agreement. “So that’s why I’d like for everyone here to be in a better sense of order when he returns. If he doesn’t have to worry about how we’re eating and keeping warm, then he can focus on what he’s meant to do.”

 

Gaius brought him to a tall young woman, imposing in her beauty and her poise. He introduced her as Lady Morgana, formerly the king’s ward, and said that she was most likely in charge with Arthur gone. There was another girl with her, younger and with a friendlier, simpler demeanour. She smiled at him but was quiet as Morgana sized him up, assessing. She was sitting calmly in the middle of everything, surveying the frantic efforts of everyone else to look busy.

 

“Our problems are obvious,” she said, no further introduction, voice as confident and commanding as her presence.

 

“Er…” Merlin replied.

 

“Well, look!” she said, sweeping an arm out emphatically. “No one knows what to do but no one will admit it, we don’t have any food or any money and, as far as I can tell, no way of making any.”

 

A little more blunt than Merlin would have put it, especially as most of the hollow bustle seemed to have stopped, and he suddenly had an audience.

 

“Well,” he said, to fill the silence of their expectant stares. Did they think he was some sort of city administrator? “Do any of you have any, ah, trades? Anything to sell?”

 

“My father’s a blacksmith,” said the girl next to Morgana.

 

“That’s good,” he replied, trying to be as encouraging as possible. “We usually have to rely on travelling tinkers to repair pots and tools, and nobody really trusts them. But if my mother vouched for him, that’d help. I know Edward’s horse threw a shoe last week, and damaged his plough with carrying on, so, well -- so yes, that’s good.”

 

“I know,” said Morgana. “This.” She reached into the plunging neckline of her fine purple gown – he looked away, heat rising to his face – and pulled out a long chain of gold that carried a heavy coat of arms on the end.

 

“Milady, no!” cried the blacksmith’s daughter.

 

“This was my father’s,” Morgana explained, looking at him directly, challengingly. “But he’s dead now, and Uther had control of his land. Uther’s dead now, too, and so this means nothing.”

 

She held firm, despite the protests of the blacksmith’s daughter, whom he learned was named Gwen, and who had been the Lady Morgana’s handmaiden in Camelot. He didn’t really think Morgana wanted to part with it, but her example would inspire hope and loyalty in the others, who seemed more than a little lost. Merlin resolved to bring his mother when he came back, who could teach them about fending for themselves in a situation that required more than just ferrying money to the appropriate tradesman.

 

At first, all he could offer was a recommendation to avoid the copse with the tree that looked like a man – they would definitely recognise it -- because that was where Sigebert and Philippa met three days a week, and he couldn’t think of anything else. He ruminated a little bit, then gave them some foundations on where to bathe and where to get fresh water, where there was a good crop of wild berries that would be in season soon. Before he left, Morgana cornered him and made him promise that he could direct her to a blacksmith who would melt down the crest and then pay for the metal.

 

“Thank you, Merlin,” Gaius said when Merlin took his leave. It was late afternoon, and he felt guilty for neglecting his chores all day.

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” said Merlin. He recognised that all the tidbits he’d imparted wouldn’t be of much help in the long run.

 

“No, this was fine. A little direction is really all they need. I suppose I don’t need to tell you to please keep all of this a secret.”

 

“Of course not!” Merlin said, starting off. “I still think you’re off your head about Arthur, though.”

 

“You’d be much more worried if I told you about some of the specific things the dragon’s been saying about you two!” was the return, and instead of acknowledging whatever _that_ comment was supposed to be, Merlin returned to his quiet cottage and loving mother.

 

Which was not to say he didn’t ponder it the whole trip home.

 

 

* * *

 

Cendred’s kingdom was an oblong, lopsided thing, such that his capital city was fortunately much nearer to them than most parts of the kingdom. Arthur almost rode it straight through, until he realised that his horse was faltering between his legs, that when he looked back, Bors and Gareth were lolling, nearly asleep, on their exhausted mounts.

 

He slept briefly and uneasily. Whenever he woke, he rolled back into the same dream, a dream in which he watched his father treading a ledge, back and forth, which Arthur could see was crumbling beneath his boots. He tried to motion, to yell, but his muscles were threads of lead and his voice came in just a whisper.

 

Gereburg, the capital city, was smaller than Camelot, dingy, with quiet streets. He was accustomed to riding triumphantly through Camelot, cheers echoing and a parade of children running behind him. Here the peasants, eyes downcast, barely bothered to look at them as they wound their way to the castle in the centre.

 

Once they reached the gates of the castle proper, Arthur circled around to the stables. He motioned for the knights to arrange stabling for their horses and dismounted, stretching his cramped muscles. He’d never spent this amount of concentrated time on a horse. Even the longest and most strenuous of hunts were filled with breaks to eat and regroup, especially in the large, showy companies his father favoured.

 

Eying the crests on their doublets and shields, the stable boys began to tack and rub down the sweaty horses.

 

Two knights rode in at a gallop, shouting at each other in an apparent race. One pulled ahead in the final stretch, but the other took off his helm and hurled it, hitting the steed in the flank. It reared, eyes rolling in fear, giving the offending rider just enough time to break away and reach the doorway of the stable first.

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He would never treat a knight’s horse in such a way, but he also wouldn’t let one of his own knights ride an animal that was so poorly trained.

 

Both knights, wearing what Arthur recognised as the green lion of Cendred, ignored them.

 

“Seems you owe me something,” said the winning knight with a smirk. “I’ll take your greaves.”

 

“You foul cheat!” returned the second. “What happened to your own? You had a perfectly good set!”

 

“I left them in that brothel we visited on the way back from Camelot.”

 

Arthur physically started to hear the word. Had Cendred heard already and sent knights? Why were they back so soon, and so jocular? He moved to start forward, felt Bors next to him stirring as well.

 

“Oh, you had to go on that? I’m glad I didn’t, that Nimueh woman gave me the chills. Not to mention that one with the burns, the one who wouldn’t let that box out of his sight. I don’t envy Uther those foes.”

 

The first knight gave a malicious cackle. “I doubt we’ve got much at all to envy him for, anymore. Those sorcerers wanted nothing more than to see him dead.”

 

The chill that had been slowly coalescing in Arthur’s stomach exploded into a flurry of shock and adrenaline. He knew he wasn’t the most politically minded member of Camelot’s court, but he could gather as well as the knights with him, who had each laid a restraining hand on him in some manner, that these words were tantamount to an admission that Cendred had betrayed Uther to his foes.

 

His whole body itched for action, with the desire to gut these knights here and now for the part they’d played in his father’s downfall. But they were in Cendred’s stables, at the entrance of Cendred’s castle, in the middle of Cendred’s city, which he now knew was a dead end, and certain suicide if he stayed much longer.

 

But he couldn’t just burst out and ride away now. If the knights truly noticed him, they would surely see the gold dragon rearing on his coat, and none of them wouldn’t be safe if they took care to look it up and pursue him.

 

His course of action was decided when the two knights headed out, one remarking to the other on a new shipment of good ale at a certain inn in the city.

 

Arthur exchanged a glance with his knights, saw they were all standing steadily with him. So he nodded to a stable boy, telling him, “We’re to have an audience with your king tomorrow, so we’ll need our horses stabled for the night. If they’re well taken care of, you will be, too.”

 

“Of course, my lord!” said the boy. Arthur stayed long enough to see where they put their horses and tack, and then set off after the Cendred’s men.

 

He would understand this before the night was through.

 

As they followed the two knights, Kay leaned in and asked, “Do you truly intend to meet with Cendred tomorrow, sire?”

 

Arthur shook his head. A challenge would be issued the next time he saw that traitor, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until one of them was dead.

 

He kept this cold thought as comfort while they trailed their prey through streets that got a little darker, a little narrower, while the daylight dimmed. He learned a few things: they were named Alec and Raed; they planned on a whorehouse later; most importantly, they had no idea that five men were following them. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the five mailed men in red who stalked their streets, or perhaps they just didn’t care.

 

When Alec and Raed disappeared into their alehouse of choice, Arthur signalled for each of his men to take a different point around its perimeter, and to use their standard call. Then they waited. He forced himself to stay focused on the pair at hand, bringing all his anger and betrayal to bear on them while Cendred was out of reach.

 

The call came from behind the building, closest to Gareth and Pellinore. When the remaining three circled around, they found their prey staggering drunkenly down an alley. A more perfect set up could not have been imagined.

 

He broke finally into a run, revelling in the pump of his legs and his heart as he easily overtook them.

 

“Oi, where’s the fire?” one yelled as they noticed him, and he slowed.

 

“Oh, no fire,” he corrected, low, as he drew near. “I’ve just got something to do. Something here.”

 

He stepped close, into their personal space, felt his men backing him.

 

They were cocky and proud, full of ale and their own importance as knights to a traitor king, but Arthur taught them the folly of this false pride himself. He didn’t need Pellinore or Gareth to help him disarm both, and once they were on their knees with fear in their eyes, he drew a small dagger.

 

He used it to exact the truth.

 

He wanted kill them both, wanted it badly, but he knew it wasn’t a line to cross. Poor knights though they were, they personally had not betrayed his father. He backhanded each and hoped they wouldn’t remember him when they awoke.

 

He didn’t speak as they strode back to the royal stable. The stable boys were all absent, so they quietly tacked up themselves. It was a relief to hear Aherne nicker gently as he tightened the girths, helped to chase the stray cold adrenaline from his veins.

 

As an afterthought, a bit of petty revenge, he grabbed five extra sets of bits, reins and bridles. They stole the best five horses from the royal paddock and galloped for the gate opposite their point of entry. Cendred was apparently feeling confident; the gates were wide open and unguarded.

 

Taking this long way would add at least another half a day to their trip, but with extra horses they could ride farther, faster, and he couldn’t risk Cendred learning their location within his lands, in case Alec or Raed remembered enough to identify them.

 

He rode full of purpose, though with this avenue cut off he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. He only knew that his list was growing longer, that he’d have to be stronger, more clever, to survive long enough to avenge everything that had been done.

 

 

* * *

 

By the time they arrived back, Arthur’s purpose had failed, changed into a cold pit of frustration and helplessness hardening in his stomach. It was heartening to see everyone a little more organised, a little more relaxed, but he immediately noticed Morgana was gone. It wasn’t like her to miss the chance to gloat that she had been right and he wrong.

 

“How went it with Cendred, my lord?” asked Gawain.

 

Arthur looked at him grimly. “Where’s Morgana?”

 

“She went with the physician this morning, my lord. She plans to sell something in a nearby town.”

 

“Morgana doesn’t have anything to sell, unless she filled her pockets with serving utensils before she knocked me out with a scabbard. Or has she taken up needlework since I’ve been gone?”

 

“From what I understand, it is something of her father’s.”

 

Something of her… He knew was it was.

 

“Where did they go?” he demanded.

 

He managed to wrangle an approximate direction from Morgana’s maid, who hadn’t wanted to tell him at all, impertinent thing, until he’d indicated that he wanted to stop Morgana.

 

For indeed, while he understood the gesture – quite frankly, it demonstrated an awareness of things besides revealing gowns and flowers that previously he wasn’t sure he’d have vouched for – it wasn’t her task to support them.

 

Gawain’s horse wasn’t up to Arthur’s own standards, but it proved swift enough once they broke out of the woods and onto the road.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin rode with Morgana, accompanied by Gaius and one of the Camelot knights, whom he had convinced -- with difficulty -- to remove his livery and wear in its place a simple doublet and jerkin, to the nearest town he thought might have a smith of sufficient means to pay what Morgana wanted. Even he knew it would have fetched a better price at a jeweller, but she claimed she didn’t want anyone suspecting her identity. He thought also that she didn’t want anyone else to actually own it, and if it were as much of an heirloom as Gwen thought, he couldn’t blame her.

 

He only hoped that she wouldn’t be so conspicuous she gave the game up herself. Her purple dress was a little worse for wear, but was still the finest thing he’d ever seen, and would doubtless be a similar wonder anywhere but a court.

 

They ended up with two smithies, almost directly across from each other.

 

Morgana walked her horse into the middle of the road between them, stopped and stared between the two, then dismounted and continued to look, making her indecision obvious, and doing so in sufficiently striking a manner to slow some of the foot traffic.

 

Once she had eyed them both, she slowly walked into one, leaving Cador with her horse. Gaius followed her in, and after a moment of deliberation Merlin did the same.

 

Morgana drew the pendant and its fine chain from a pouch around her wrist and laid it in front of the blacksmith.

 

He eyed it and then looked at her face. “This is very fine work, milady, but I can’t see what you want me to do with it.”

 

“It was a gift,” Morgana told him, all haughty tones and long hair and raised chin. “From a young man who, I later found out, was wooing me to appease his parents while he dabbled with several of my maids. His father put an end to it all after he got one with child, but I kept this. I plan to sell it so far away from his home that he’ll never hear what happened to it, and I want it melted down so he’ll have no chance of seeing it again.”

 

Morgana had managed to pique the man’s interest. He evaluated it shortly, then named a sum that almost made Merlin’s jaw drop.

 

Morgana, however, was unimpressed. “What would he offer me across the way, do you think?” she asked coolly.

 

“No need to ask him, my good lady!” interrupted a loud voice. “Why, for a piece this fine, I’d gladly pay triple that.” The other smith, if indeed it was he, was round and finely dressed, unlike any metal worker Merlin had seen.

 

“It’s not for sale intact,” Morgana said. “I don’t wish to repeat the tale, but I want it melted down, and either way you’ll make a tidy profit off the gold.”

 

“Well, that will lower my price, of course, but I’m sure I can still offer you more than this lout.”

 

Merlin soon lost track of the furious flow of offers, insults and counterpoints, especially since each figure was so out of his experience as to be practically incomprehensible. Someone could spend their whole life in Ealdor and not spend a fraction of it.

 

Things seemed to be winding down, with the flashy smith seeming less and less enthusiastic, when there was a small commotion outside. Merlin looked out and saw Arthur clattering off his horse in a dusty display of armour. Morgana noticed as well.

 

“Merlin, distract him, just for a minute,” she said, and pointed to the smith whose shop they were already in. “You, that’s fine, do it now.”

 

Merlin walked out, followed by the flashy smith, who stalked in a huff across the street and in a fortunate coincidence nearly knocked Arthur to the ground.

 

Merlin was counting on this to cause some sort of a fracas in which Morgana could do what she needed, but instead the glare Arthur directed at the man subsided almost immediately, and he turned away, back towards the very place from which Merlin was supposed to be keeping him.

 

“Arthur!” Merlin said, raising his voice to draw the prince’s attention. “How did it go? Er… My lord.”

 

Arthur stopped, levelled him with a look that might have been imperious if he didn’t just look _exhausted_.

 

“How did you even know where I was? No, never mind that -- what on earth possessed you to do this? Do you have any idea what you’ve –”

 

“Sire!” exclaimed Cador.

 

“Sir Cador!” Arthur rounded on him. “You’re a part of this as well?”

 

Merlin was feeling a little on edge about the whole thing already, and Arthur’s appearing only to berate everyone set him off. “He’s got nothing to do with it! He’s only here because he was concerned.”

 

“As he well should be! This isn’t something that Morgana can just _do_, it’s her family--”

 

“Concerned about her _safety_, you arse, not some stupid hunk of metal!”

 

“And that’s all it is now,” interrupted Morgana. “So let’s not cause a scene.” The pouch on her wrist bulged. “Gaius and I have some things to pick up. Arthur, you look absolutely terrible, you should stay here.”

 

Arthur moved to grab her hand, close it around the bag of money. “Take this back right now and get it back.”

 

She put her free hand on top of his, fingers tightening gently and eyes soft. “I can’t. It’s gone. I’m sure you have much to say on the subject, but for now I’ve got to get some soap.” She wrinkled her nose. “I can only imagine how all your knights must stink.” Cador paled a little.

 

“Watch him, Merlin,” Morgana told him, not waiting for a response before she and Gaius swept away.

 

If she _had_ waited, Merlin would have asked if she had meant to say, “Watch Arthur while he tries to kill you and you’re forced to use magic to save yourself and, oh yes, then he will hate you and if in fact this dragon destiny is for real, well, it won’t be after that, so you won’t have to worry about the rest of it after all!” Because he couldn’t imagine another course of events if Arthur decided he actually wanted to do something, killing Merlin included.

 

But all the fight seemed to have gone out of Arthur, who was just slumped against his horse’s broad chest, favouring Merlin with a glare more suited to a rumpled kitten than a prince, or king, or whatever limbo title Arthur had. Merlin chose to purse his lips and narrow his eyes right back, then looked away, in the direction Morgana and Gaius had gone. The knight didn’t speak either, just continued to hold the reins and look a little worried at Arthur’s disapproval.

 

“She shouldn’t have done that,” said Arthur finally, low. “This isn’t her fight, and that was important. You shouldn’t have let her do that. Either of you.”

 

“You’re underestimating her,” Merlin blurted out, “especially if you think I could’ve stopped her. But also because this _is_ her fight. She lived there and now she can’t, and all those people back there, they look up to her and she wants to help them.”

 

Arthur was silent, but he was watching Merlin with an almost thoughtful look, so Merlin added, “Don’t overlook her.”

 

“It does seem I have too few allies to pass up any help,” Arthur said, a little absent, eyes elsewhere.

 

“So… It didn’t go well with the king?” he asked in a low voice. He was probably being paranoid, but he didn’t want to name Cendred.

 

“I never spoke to him,” Arthur replied, similarly sotto voce. “But it’s not for repeating here, so don’t ask.”

 

Fair enough.

 

Morgana and Gaius came back laden with fresh produce, knives, a great cooking pot they lashed to the back of Cador’s saddle, and an array of other necessities they distributed among the horses.

 

It was slower going on the return journey, the horses a little recalcitrant at their added burdens and everyone tense. Merlin, who was able to ride but had never had particularly strong horse sense or coordination, found his to be increasingly uncooperative, until finally a great shimmy sent a saddlebag and nearly him to the ground. He didn’t intend to make a scene of it, but of course Arthur chose that moment to glance back and heave a great, long-suffering sigh.

 

“Sir Cador,” he called. “Escort the lady Morgana back, please. We’ll be along shortly.” He dismounted and led his stallion back, eyeing the mess with a bit of a smirk.

 

Morgana walked her mare over. “Are you going to be all right? You look ready to fall right off your horse.”

 

He looked at her condescendingly. “Please do let me know, Morgana, when I’m back up to your standards. Only then will I able to show my face in the _woods_.”

 

“Oh, calm down! I only mean I’m worried.”

 

Arthur was silent for a long moment, stiff, gaze a little to the right of her face. “While I still don’t think you should have done…what you did, I understand why it was necessary. It… It will help.”

 

“Why, Arthur!” she exclaimed, looking sidelong at him, amused. “Is that almost a thank you I just heard?”

 

Arthur’s mouth twitched, finally looking into her eyes. “Try not to trip over your skirts without me.”

 

Gaius elected to stay with them, and Merlin had a slight suspicion that he just wanted to keep watch over them, like he thought they’d attack each other as soon as they were alone. Really, he was taking the whole dragons and destiny thing very seriously.

 

They’d not gone far when it happened. Merlin thought back to Morgana’s comment and had to wonder if maybe she was magic, too, because all of a sudden, Arthur was tilting to the side, no longer moving in practised time with the trot, and then at the next cant sliding clean off.

 

Merlin wasn’t surprised by the instinctive way his hand shot out, only the sudden fear that filled him even as Arthur’s fall slowed to an almost imperceptible descent, a feather on a light breeze.

 

Well, he rationalised, if what I have here is the future king of everything, it wouldn’t do very well for history if I let him crack his skull open after a tumble off a horse. He dove, and hoped history would appreciate the sacrifice of his dignity.

 

When he righted time, landing in an ungainly sprawl with Arthur’s armour digging into him in all sorts of uncomfortable places, Gaius was staring down at him with a disapproving eyebrow already arched, not any help at all.

 

“After you reveal yourself to any of the dozens of people we’ve seen in the past hour, were you planning on escaping into the woods by yourself, or exposing Arthur in the process?”

 

That of course shouldn’t be dignified by a response. Merlin struggled to right the prince, or at least roll him off his belly, but quickly ruled the dead weight impossible.

 

For all Gaius’ berating, there was no one in sight, so Merlin opened one hand and levitated Arthur’s body awkwardly off. Careful prodding to the shoulder led to shoving, and finally Merlin tried to wake him by slapping him lightly across the cheek, but apparently he was out for keeps.

 

“What am I supposed to do with him now?” he hissed.

 

Gaius somehow managed to arch the same eyebrow in a way that was now questioning, and Merlin definitely thought the old man looked a little amused. He dismounted himself, bent over to listen to Arthur’s pulse and breathing.

 

“Keep him on the horse, of course,” he said. “He’ll be fine.”

 

At first Merlin tried to stay on his own mount and keep Arthur up with magic alone, but he couldn’t keep Arthur’s whole body from listing to the side with an unnatural pose of stick-straight back and limp limbs.

 

So that explained how Merlin found himself in the uncomfortable position of sitting atop Arthur’s massive stallion, the only one who could bear the weight of them both, scooted as far back as possible so he could support Arthur’s body without keeping the two of them pressed together groin to chest.

 

“Couldn’t we have just roped him to the saddle?” Merlin griped, because if he was annoyed, then he was definitely _not_ interested. “Bloody enormous prat. Or woken him up, even? What is he, hibernating?”

 

“Yes, that would have been a fine way to travel a busy road,” said Gaius unnecessarily, and obviously enjoying himself. He also couldn’t keep himself from asking more questions during the trip, mostly about Merlin’s time trick.

 

“Can you stop it completely?”

 

“Not as far as I know, though I haven’t really tried,” Merlin mused. “I’ve never needed it.”

 

“Do you think you could?”

 

This was a disturbing question. Stopping time altogether wasn’t really a power Merlin wanted. He wished he could just shrug, brush the query off, but Arthur’s head lolled near to slipping off his shoulder when he tried.

 

“Maybe. It would be...” he struggled for the right word. “Eerie.”

 

Gaius’ thoughtful look in response gave him a bit of a chill. He didn’t like the idea of being something Gaius had no experience with, something Gaius in fact seemed to think was out of the realm of possibility.

 

Gaius decided it would be best if Arthur slept off his exhaustion in Ealdor, without a crowd of people who needed his opinions or guidance or reassurance. Merlin flatly refused to go through the normal way, not bestride a great war horse with some unconscious, unknown man braced against his skinny chest.

 

“We’re going around the long way,” he decided, and held firm despite Gaius’ look of frustration at what he deemed Merlin’s “petty concerns.” Merlin restrained himself from rolling his eyes and calling him an impatient old man right back. Or maybe he didn’t.

 

His mother didn’t demand an explanation when they circled around from the back road, not even when Merlin, who had in fact been cheating most of the way and using a trickle of magic, levitated Arthur into the bed – and didn’t even drop him down with a satisfying thump, though he would have liked to.

 

Gaius was explaining when he came back around, his mother concerned but not unhappy at the intrusion.

 

“So that’s Prince Arthur?” she asked.

 

“Yeah.” He couldn’t meet her eyes for some reason, found himself looking to the ground near her feet. “He’s a right pain.”

 

“I’m sure,” she replied, fond, and so he busied himself doing all the chores he’d been neglecting the past few days, even though most of them seemed to have already be finished.

 

“So you don’t think it went well with Cendred?” Merlin asked as he quickly swept under the table.

 

Gaius shook his head. “If Arthur had hope of getting something done, he’d have said so immediately. Whatever did happen, it must have been discouraging.”

 

“Like you thought.”

 

“Yes, but I’d never have been able to convince him so; he’s very stubborn, especially now. He’s been given no time to properly grieve, and of course it’s affecting him. I also don’t think he’s actually slept since we left.”

 

“Not at all?” he asked.

 

“Most likely not. I’ve run across this before, usually in times of war, a leader who wears himself to the bone or a runner who’s not stopped ferrying messages for days. Arthur’s in much the same position; I imagine he’ll wake soon.”

 

This made sense when considered with Arthur’s mood swings and his attacking Merlin in the woods and running in to save Morgana from absolutely nothing and then taking the whole thing personally and, oh yes, collapsing straight off his horse, practically into a coma.

 

Once Merlin finished up with what his mother hadn’t been able to do in his absence, Gaius made him help remove Arthur’s armour so he could be checked for injuries. Apparently, his old fingers couldn’t undo all the buckles.

 

Later, with Arthur still sleeping, completely silent, he went out to get water and ran into Will on the way back.

 

“Who’s at your house?” he asked curiously, attention skipping past Merlin and his full bucket of water to the unknown horses.

 

“Oh, ah, my mother’s friend Gaius is here. The physician? He’s been telling us all about this one time when he had to treat someone who got his prick sliced half off trying to teach his child how to use a knife. Apparently that sort of thing happens all the time in the city, he’s got loads of tales.”

 

As he’d expected, Will made a face of disgust.

 

“My mother loves them,” Merlin added, just for a bit of effect.

 

“Right, well, that’s obviously not on if you ask me, so come around later, yeah?”

 

Merlin nodded, feeling a quick flash of guilt because not only would he most likely not be able to, he’d not seen Will since they parted the night Gaius came, and if things continued in this vein, he probably wouldn’t be much for a while.

 

Hunith efficiently measured out the water for the soup base, adding in some spring vegetables for flavour. This was the best eating of the year, while the produce was new and fresh, and they weren’t relying on old stores of grain for all their meals.

 

While she worked, Merlin drew Gaius into the far corner – not exactly a distance, but hopefully enough that they could talk quietly without her overhearing – and looked at him in silence for a moment, trying to find words to fit his thoughts.

 

“I’m not – I mean you really don’t – There’s nothing you know about where I – where _this_ came from?” There was no need to qualify ‘this.’ “Am I… Some kind of freak?”

 

Gaius returned his gaze, quiet as well but only in thought, not grave or menacing, and shook his head.

 

“Definitely not, and don’t ever think so, Merlin. The dragon had some things to say. He mentioned the Old Religion. Something about a plan, but he wasn’t very specific, so I can’t tell you very much. The Old Religion is a vast and complicated thing, outside of our principles and laws.”

 

“The Old Religion? Sacrifices and forest Gods and the like?”

 

“Most likely not. In my experience, the Old Religion can be what you make of it. You can choose to devote your life to its study and practice, like the Druids, or you can live by its limitations and adjust to modern convention.”

 

He thought about that, and where he fit into it, until there came a sudden, unmistakable crash of metal from the corner.

 

Arthur was standing on the far side of the bed, near the now disarrayed pile Merlin and Gaius had made of his armour. He was holding his sword out defensively, apparently not yet alert enough to realise it was still sheathed. Merlin wasn’t worried; Arthur looked more like a bedraggled and disgruntled cat than a fearsome warrior.

 

“Good evening, sunshine,” he said, laughing.

 

“I’ll have you know,” Arthur groused, shaking the sword threateningly. “I’ve been trained to kill since birth.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I could do something before you managed to bludgeon me to death with your blunt object.”

 

Arthur stopped, and his whole face changed dramatically as he eyed his outstretched arm.

 

“I’m still quite sure I could take you apart with one blow,” he said confidently.

 

“Sure,” Merlin agreed, since it was really more fun to rile him up like this, all indignant, with his hair sticking straight up on one side, than actually bicker about it.

 

“So, this is your house?” he asked with a condescending look around the small place, and that was about the end of Merlin’s good humour.

 

“Your highness,” interrupted Gaius smoothly. “I would like to introduce you to Merlin’s mother, Hunith. She is one of my oldest friends.”

 

Fortunately, Arthur had no urge to be rude to Merlin’s mother, looking at her respectfully and uttering some courtly pleasantries.

 

Hunith quirked an eyebrow playfully, but replied in kind. “Will you be staying for dinner, my lord?”

 

Merlin was sure Arthur was about to demur, but Gaius interrupted. “You really should, sire, as far as I can tell it’s been days since you’ve really eaten anything. You’ll do no one any good if you pass out again from hunger.”

 

So not only did Arthur end up staying, he also trailed along after Merlin as he went to gather parsley, which really wasn’t necessary, especially as Merlin had been looking for an excuse to avoid Arthur. Somewhere, apparently, a bored, captive dragon was laughing at him.

 

“What is this place called again? Aldor?” Arthur asked, peering from the woods behind Merlin’s house at the tiny sprawl of the village.

 

“_Ealdor_, but it really doesn’t matter since you’re _not coming back_.”

 

“I don’t know, _Merlin_,” Arthur returned, smirking. “Your mother seems quite taken with me.”

 

“Yes, well, I’m not waiting around until you decide to be as horrible to her as to everyone else,” Merlin said, viciously jerking a sapling out of the ground for daring to sprout a branch across his path. If he couldn’t jerk Arthur’s head off in a similar manner, this would have to suffice.

 

“I’d never be rude to a woman, particularly not one who’s offered me hospitality,” Arthur said, seeming genuinely offended that Merlin would think him so low.

 

“I think you might be a little batty,” he stated and stalked further into the trees.

 

“You know, you really can’t talk to me like that,” Arthur informed him. “My father would put you in the stocks.”

 

He stopped, picked up another plant that had offended Merlin in some way and died for its efforts. He held it out like he had his sword, swished it around as if testing its spring. He didn’t meet Merlin’s eyes.

 

Ah.

 

“Gaius said,” Merlin offered, tentative, “he said your father was a good king.”

 

At that Arthur looked up, sidelong and considering, perhaps wondering if Merlin was sincere.

 

“He was. He wouldn’t have let Morgana sell off her heritage. She was his ward, and now she’s mine, and I’ve failed at it already.”

 

Merlin couldn’t imagine Morgana as Arthur’s ward and said as much, earning a slight lightening of Arthur’s tight expression.

 

“Besides,” he added. “If your father was a good king, he would have known how to adapt. You can’t judge this by the standards of your father’s court in Camelot. You have to wait for that until you get it back.”

 

“I’m going to,” Arthur said, face serious and hard.

 

Merlin didn’t reply, couldn’t reply without just spouting empty reassurances, but he returned Arthur’s gaze, honest.

 

“Merlin, you’ve been a very helpful, ah… peasant,” said Arthur, with a wave of his hand Merlin was determined not to find dismissive. “Do you know how to fight?”

 

“I think I can handle myself.”

 

“Okay. So if a man came at you like this—” Arthur was apparently serious about this, moving towards Merlin with strong, quick movements, arms up and hands open. Was this how he was in Camelot, Merlin wondered, confident and powerful, strutting about like he owned the place and perhaps able to back it up if challenged?

 

He stepped back. “Whatever you’re intending to do, I’m sure I’ll be better off without it.”

 

“I’m helping you, Merlin,” said Arthur, stepping forward, a little too close again. “What would you do if someone grabbed you like this.” Before Merlin could really react, he darted his arms forward, catching one around Merlin’s neck and spinning him around so they were pressed back to chest, Merlin’s chin against the crook of Arthur’s elbow. With the other he twisted Merlin’s right arm behind his back, working it up so his shoulder pulled painfully.

 

Determined not to show that Arthur absolutely had the best of him, Merlin replied, light, “Not let him get close enough?”

 

“Well what would you do,” Arthur began again, voice low right beside Merlin’s ear. “If they had your mother?”

 

He didn’t like the tone of that, so he took a chance, sagging in Arthur’s arms despite the pain that shot through his shoulder, forcing Arthur to move down with him just enough that he was unbalanced, then he kicked both heels into the ground, thrusting them back – okay, so maybe he _pushed_ for that, a little, Arthur was surely unable to see his eyes – until Arthur slammed into a tree trunk.

 

He wriggled out of Arthur’s grasp and turned, looking at him straight on. “I’ll never let _anything_ happen to my mother,” he hissed, pointing one finger straight into the middle of Arthur’s chest for emphasis, right where the collar dipped low. Arthur’s skin was warm against his fingertip, and Merlin could feel both his heartbeat and his strong, even breathing.

 

Arthur’s looked at him for a long, tense, moment, eyes intent, then he ducked down and pushed off the tree, colliding with Merlin’s middle and tackling him to the ground.

 

“That’s good,” he replied, approving. “It’ll only work once, though. You have a few real options: there’s a pressure point on the artery in your arm, here, and of course you can always go for the eyes with your free hand.” He indicated the requisite spots with light touches, and Merlin could feel the pads of his thumbs brush his eyelashes, once.

 

“It’s surprisingly easy to gouge an eye out with a thumb,” Arthur finished, and sat back, content with these small bits of violence. Neither of them mentioned that he was still, very unnecessarily, pinning Merlin down by straddling his torso.

 

“Ow,” said Merlin. “Is this how you help everyone who carries your heavy arse all the way home and then feeds you?” He didn’t try to sit up, and it was definitely because he had judged that a position on the forest floor would be safer from Arthur’s idea of help. No other reason. At all.

 

“_Carried_ me?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Merlin said, though really he wasn’t sure which one of them he was mocking. “You nearly slid right off your horse. Luckily I was, ah. Near.”

 

“And then?”

 

“Then you wouldn’t wake up! Eventually we had to just hold you on your horse! I suppose that’s very royal and all, not even bothering to open your eyes to ride your horse on your own. Instead you get other people to… what?” he asked, trailing off at the expression on Arthur’s face.

 

“So tell me, _Merlin_, how _did_ I get here?”

 

“Oh, well, you know – we thought about just – tying you on and hoping no one passed, but Gaius thought, I guess, that would look bad, so I kind of just had to—” He cut himself off, trying to gesture with a wide circle of his arms against the ground rather than actually articulate the rest.

 

Arthur got up in one strong sweep of his body, and walked in a circle while he said, slow and thoughtful, “So what you’re saying is that you took advantage of my helpless state to sample my royal goods?” He stopped with his feet planted behind Merlin’s head, so he could lean over and look right into his eyes, brows raised in a challenge that might have been less ridiculous if he hadn’t been so obviously suppressing a smile.

 

Merlin swallowed. “I think being royal has gone to your head. Just a little bit.”

 

Arthur’s eyes narrowed comically, but just as he opened his mouth for some undoubtedly ridiculous and scathing reply, Hunith yelled that Merlin, she couldn’t keep supper warm all night.

 

Parsley pretence forgotten, he scrambled up, not wanting to keep his mother waiting. Arthur followed him back, but all the while kept a step ahead, to disillusion Merlin of any ideas that he was letting him lead.

 

“I’m glad Ealdor isn’t part of Camelot.” Merlin said, only a little spiteful.

 

“Are you?” Arthur asked archly.

 

“Yes, I’d hate to have a ruler who was such an enormous prat.”

 

“I’m quite sure your foul village isn’t up to our standards, anyway.” Arthur returned, but there wasn’t any real malice to his words, just a trace of playful jocularity that hadn’t been there when he’d crouched behind a bed, brandishing a sheathed sword.

 

 

* * *

 

Gaius had reserved his time again the next day, so Merlin got up early, finished what he could around the house, then headed down the rapidly-becoming-familiar path with an apologetic glance towards Will’s house. Every time he thought about Will meeting Arthur, all sword first questions later, the outcome got worse and worse until he was imagining Will challenging Arthur to a duel and Arthur maiming him out of spite.

 

Arthur met him about a mile out from the camp, standing with his feet planted shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his chest in a way that _really_ emphasised the muscles. His sword was thrust showily into the ground. Merlin looked at him expectantly for a few moments.

 

“Where’s Gaius?” he asked finally, when Arthur showed no signs of explaining the man’s absence – or moving, even.

 

“I don’t think I need my physician to help me learn the lay of land.”

 

Merlin frowned, disappointed, because he was nowhere near out of questions.

 

“I don’t know. You can’t have recovered from that fainting spell this quickly. Sure you’re not still feeling infirm?” He didn’t only mean it as a dig; Arthur definitely hadn’t had enough time to recover from days of barely eating or sleeping, even if he had torn through nearly the whole pot of soup.

 

Arthur’s eyes flashed at the challenge. “I think I showed you yesterday just how _firm_ I am.”

 

“Oh, really? I must have missed that part. Were you referring to any part in particular, or just generally…” He trailed off unimpressively, blushing as he realised the implication of his words.

 

“I’m starting to think you’re infirm yourself. In the head,” Arthur observed, but his face was definitely red, too. He jerked his sword free with a flourish, wiping it clean on his thigh before he sheathed it. Merlin wondered if he’d ever injured himself, showing off like that.

 

“So you live… that way?” Arthur pointed, and even in a question whose answer he had wrong he sounded commanding.

 

“Not quite,” Merlin said, moving to wrap his fingers around Arthur’s wrist and adjust his angle. “There.”

 

As he loosened his grip, stepped back, Arthur’s eyes fastened onto his fingers, and Merlin watched him follow them all the way back down to his side before they skittered away, into the trees.

 

“This way,” Arthur said suddenly, pushing through a cluster of hawthorn branches and walking away before the words were even finished.

 

Merlin followed through the snapped twigs, letting Arthur divine what he wanted from the brush and the boulders pushing out through the loam, holdovers from the rocky ridge a few miles away.

 

He seemed to be doing fine on his own, leading a loose perimeter around the camp, so Merlin didn’t interrupt as he took survey.

 

“There’s really nothing around here but Ealdor?” Arthur asked eventually.

 

“Oh, well, no, there is. I mean, there’s some village – I forget the name -- a day’s ride east, and Wilchetone is about a half day north.”

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, voice flat and slow like he was talking to a child. “Why did you think I brought you?”

 

“Ah… company? Safety? I thought Gaius was coming, really.”

 

“If I wanted either of those I’d have brought my knights. You’re here because I need you to tell me about the area. That’s the only reason and so far you’ve failed. Spectacularly.”

 

“Well, now I’ve told you,” Merlin said, wishing someone else were present so he could at least share an agonised glance with them. “I promise to keep you updated from now on.”

 

“See that you do,” Arthur told him with a long look.

 

However, his running commentary of, “I’m pretty sure there used to be a farm over there, I mean a hundred years ago used to, because there’s still a well with good water, and there’s an abandoned mill a few more miles away and—” wasn’t acceptable either, as Arthur explained when he interrupted.

 

“All right, stop talking so damn much.” He paused. “Actually, the well will be useful, but all I want to know about is the things that will have an affect on our actions, now.”

 

“Right, okay.”

 

A long period passed that was filled only with Merlin’s brief accounts of what current constructions or natural obstructions they were passing. Apparently this was satisfactory, for Arthur gave no comment either way.

 

“What _did_ happen with Cendred?” Merlin asked finally, voicing what he’d been wondering for two days.

 

“So you don’t even call your own king by his title?” was all Arthur said in response.

 

Merlin shrugged, focused on the motes dancing in the light that beamed through the canopy. “He’s never been our king in anything but name. If he’d earned respect, I’d give it.”

 

“That seems to be a theme with him,” said Arthur. “He claimed to be my father’s ally, but he led the sorcerers right to him.”

 

“He actually told you that?” Merlin stopped mid-step, hand on an elderberry branch laden with fragrant spring flowers.

 

“Of course not,” Arthur scoffed. “We overheard two of his knights discussing it on our way in. We… They told us everything.”

 

“Oh,” said Merlin, because he wasn’t sure how much detail of that he wanted. He let go of the branch, and ignored Arthur’s annoyed look when it whizzed back and nearly hit him in the face.

 

Next, Arthur inquired and was disappointed by Merlin’s lack of knowledge in big game hunting, but he did seem very interested in the swimming hole Merlin pointed out, so interested that Merlin was worried he was going to propose they jump in right then.

 

As long as Arthur refrained from insults, he actually wasn’t terrible company, at least in that he was genuinely trying to learn the area in order to make the most of his situation, both for himself and those depending on him.

 

“I need somewhere to drill with the knights. Somewhere open, but somewhere we can be loud,” said Arthur as they were nearly finished. Merlin walked on in silence for a moment, because he could only think of one place.

 

“Why?” he asked, stalling to run mentally through other options.

 

“To drill, Merlin. The fewer of us there are, the stronger we’ll have to be. Besides, it’s good for morale.”

 

“It’s very important?” He stopped, looked at Arthur as he considered the answer.

 

“Absolutely,” he replied, and Merlin knew he believed it.

 

“There’s one place,” he conceded. “It’s back towards the ridge, and it’s well-hidden. Even if someone heard you, I doubt they’d be able to find you without flying.”

 

“That sounds… perfect, actually,” Arthur said.

 

“All right. I’ll show it to you tomorrow. It’s something of a climb.”

 

“Merlin, if the knights couldn’t climb, they certainly couldn’t be knights.”

 

Fair enough.

 

“Gaius wants to see you,” Arthur said as they completed their tour. “So does Morgana, apparently. Good luck with that.”

 

“With what?” Merlin asked, already following Arthur back to the camp.

 

“Morgana, of course. She’s absolutely uncontrollable and infuriating. I wouldn’t wish her on any man, especially not you. She’d eat you alive.”

 

“Wait, you thought I – with Morgana? No, definitely not, you’re quite mistaken.” Absolutely mistaken.

 

Arthur didn’t reply, just gave him a vaguely questioning look and slashed a frond out of their path with a vicious circle of sword.

 

“Besides, I’m quite sure I could hold my own.”

 

“Right,” Arthur said, making it quite clear he was _not_ agreeing. “The first man whom my father considering giving her hand was almost forty, and quite large. He left in an urgent hurry after the first night the three of them had dinner, and my father didn’t try again.”

 

“Oh,” said Merlin, another story he didn’t want elaborated.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin cut Morgana a wide berth when they arrived, just in case he’d somehow managed to give her the impression he was doing something that deserved retribution. Maybe she was regretting her decision from yesterday and looking for someone to blame? He certainly wasn’t finding out.

 

Gaius drew him as much aside as they could be without ducking behind a tree, and handed him a cloth-wrapped bundle.

 

“Under normal circumstances, I would tell you to peruse this carefully, but these are not normal times. Be cautious, but learn as much of this as you can.”

 

All that could really only lead to one thing, a thing that filled Merlin with anticipation. He hugged the bundle to his chest, suddenly impatient to get home.

 

Arthur beckoned him over to where he was standing with two of the knights. Merlin thought anxiously of how he would keep them from inquiring about the book, but Arthur only gave the dingy bundle one cursory look and then dismissed it.

 

“Sir Kay and Sir Gareth had a few questions for you,” he said.

 

They proceeded to quiz him about more details than he could remember of the things he’d shown Arthur: who else used the well, how far out should they set scouts, did anyone live on higher ground? At one point, something occurred to him, but before he could tell Arthur that they’d have to wait until the day _after_ tomorrow to go, Kay had an urgent need to know how many horses could be found in Wilchetone, and Arthur started talking over all of Merlin’s attempts to change the topic of discussion. Soon he forgot, made his excuses and darted away before they could remember to ask about chickens or how tall the trees were on the northern border or something. He remembered again as he was saying farewell to Gaius, but apparently Arthur had vanished with the same knights to go assess the well or something.

 

He stopped a nearby young woman, wearing nicer clothes than anyone in Ealdor but still looking drab compared to Morgana, so he assumed she would be able to ferry a message.

 

“Tell Arthur,” he said, “that we can’t go tomorrow, so to come the day after.”

 

She looked dubious, and starting to say something about how His Highness wasn’t to be ordered about or some such nonsense, but he just repeated, “Tell him,” and left before she could protest further.

 

Merlin shocked himself that night, by looking forward to having a day in which he could finish his chores and hash out everything that had happened with his mother.

 

He wanted to tell Will, as well, but discretion wasn’t something he’d ever been known for, and secrecy was paramount. He knew that the next day he’d have to take Will back to the plateau one last time, then seal it off somehow – change the entrance or something, at least until this whole Camelot thing was over and Arthur was gone.

 

But what if Merlin wanted to go, too? He knew Will would view it as a betrayal, after he’d spent so much time making his views on nobility and their power games clear.

 

Will was content in Ealdor, with the baker’s wife and eventually, perhaps, some girl from a neighbouring village whom he would meet at a fair and immediately adore. Merlin wasn’t sure where he was going to fit in that domesticity, whether his girl would appreciate a weird magical friend hanging about, spelling their utensils to dance for fun.

 

Now that he had these means to study magic, maybe to control and test his power, to discover his limits, he knew he wouldn’t be content to stir Will’s kitchen accessories, especially not if he was fated to help Arthur win back his country.

 

He used the book Gaius had given him, still in its cloth wrap, as a pillow that night.

 

 

* * *

 

Only the next morning, Hunith shook him awake, gently but with a definite firm undertone of, “You are the one who is supposed to be awake for this, _not I_,” and he found Arthur outside, looking suspiciously like he hadn’t slept again.

 

At least it seemed he had finally bathed.

 

“Arthur, what are you doing here?”

 

Arthur looked at him, at his nightshirt and then past his shoulder to where his mother was hopefully going back to sleep. He wasn"t wearing his full mail, just an assemblage of armour pieces over his sword arm. His fingers were tangled through the reins to a very large horse, definitely not the one he’d had yesterday.

 

“We should go now.”

 

“Go where?” he asked blearily.

 

“To wherever… how am I supposed to know? Wherever I’m supposed to take the knights.”

 

"Arthur, we can"t go today. I meant to tell you yesterday, but you..." His waving gesture, meant to signify _buggered off somewhere before I did_, probably just contributed to his general air of incoherence. But really, after he"d spent the past few days blowing everything off for all of Arthur"s small necessities, he didn"t feel the need to explain himself. “I asked some girl to tell you. She was, ah… blonde, I think?”

 

“No one told me anything,” Arthur said, frowning, “so let’s go.”

 

“I really can’t.”

 

"Why not?"

 

"I just can't, all right? We'll go tomorrow. I've got other things to do today."

 

"Merlin, I doubt your village pursuits could be that important--"

 

"Arthur," Merlin interrupted, cranky, "I'm not one of your vassals or whatnot, and considering I've spent every day since you crawled out of the forest chasing after you in some way, I don't think you get to be rude about this."

 

There was a moment of silence, while Merlin wondered if somehow the conversation could be over -- he looked up at Arthur and realised that, silence aside, his mouth was open, eyes wide, and face very slowly changing colour.

 

Apparently further explanation was necessary.

 

"Look" he said, drawing Arthur's attention but not drawing away the tense expression. “My friend Will and I go there all the time, so today I've got to take him and then somehow invent a reason why we can't go again. So you and I, we'll go tomorrow, and that's all. Unless you want to come with us today?"

 

"How are you going to do that?"

 

"I'm not sure, but I will. Don't worry, okay? And get some sleep, you'll be no good to anyone if you keep working yourself until you give out again."

 

"Right, well... The morning, then." He swung, annoyingly perfect, into the saddle and said, "Morgana still wants to see you, by the way. She's quite annoyed about yesterday."

 

Merlin purposely ignored that bit. He was definitely not letting Arthur know that he was a little intimidated by Morgana.

 

"Don't bring the horse, by the way. It won't help."

 

 

* * *

 

Later, he walked into Will's unannounced and said, "Come on, then, layabout, you asked for me and here I am," because indeed, the house was a disaster -- save for the corner in which his father's livery hung -- and Will himself was hanging sideways off the dishevelled bed, eyes staring, upside down and blank, through the window.

 

"Mystery man!" Will said, and Merlin knew that despite his smile, he was hurt. He rolled off the bed, heaving a great sigh as he stood.

 

"Well, let's go, then," he said, brandishing the sack of food he'd assembled from the remains of last night's dinner. Will didn't ask where.

 

He couldn't think of anything to fill up his time for the last few days, so he didn't say anything at all as they passed first through the fields and then the creeping brush before the dark-dappled canopy stretched above them.

 

"So you're not going to bother to explain to me what's going on?" Will demanded. "And don't try to tell me you were sick or something, I've been by."

 

"I've not been sick."

 

"What then? If you've got a girl, or a boy, or whatever, you can just tell me. Either way."

 

"Thanks," Merlin said, grinning. "It's good to know you approve of any lifestyle choice I make. But that's not it, either. It's just..." He trailed off, trying to decide what to say without lying. He really didn't want to just out and lie to his best friend. "Gaius wants me to help him with some things. He made me take him to where we got that comfrey, remember? Then he wanted some other stuff, as well. I think he might have aspirations of my being a physician like him."

 

Will laughed. "Fat luck with that, mate."

 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Merlin asked, stripping a handful of leaves from a tree and throwing them towards Will. They floated gently down in the morning sun, not even close to their target.

 

Passing now with Will, all lackadaisical and joking, through the same territory Arthur had marked with calculating eyes made the whole Camelot affair seem distant -- even the day before, even their brief morning encounter. For all Will’s trouble, he was friendly and easy going, and he didn’t have a retinue of lost city dwellers to feed or a kingdom to win back.

 

That didn’t stop him, after he and Will had climbed their way up and were lying on their backs, the face of the ridge behind them and nothing else, from wondering what Arthur was doing to fill his day.

 

Guilt flooded him, that he couldn’t even sit for an hour with his oldest friend without his mind wandering back to a demanding, standoffish prince who would probably gut him if Merlin didn’t keep lying.

 

“Will?” he asked suddenly, pushing himself onto one elbow. He’d been waffling about this for so long, but now his mind was made up.

 

“Mmm?” Will looked mostly asleep.

 

“Can I trust you with something?”

 

“If it’s the location of long-buried treasure, then definitely.”

 

“No, it’s something important.”

 

Will sat up. “Have you got a girl up the duff? I’m surprised, really, what with the—”

 

“Will,” he interrupted, “shut up, really. I’m going to show you something, pay attention.”

 

“Yes, Mother,” Will replied, holding himself absolutely still, a parody of diligence. This decided Merlin’s demonstration.

 

He paused to gather the energy for a moment, flicked his fingers a smidge, and worked the lace from Will’s shirt. Another small gesture removed his belt and then tied the two together in a bow over Will’s head.

 

Will stared. “Blimey,” he muttered, mouth open, then turned to look at Merlin with frank eyes. “Where’d you learn that?”

 

“Nowhere, I’ve always been able to.”

 

“But I thought – well, I guess we don’t know too much out here, do we?”

 

Merlin thought about that, and also about how calm Will was being about the whole thing. “No, we don’t… But Gaius says it’s strange, too.”

 

“Okay, then I guess the burning question is why did that old codger know before me?” Will still didn’t look angry, as Merlin had expected, just a little hurt and curious.

 

“My mother told him, actually. I don’t know why she gets to tell me not to show it to anyone, ever, and then spill the beans herself…”

 

“Merlin, I’m quite aware that you’ll never be able to get mad at your mother about anything. Everyone in town knows, actually. ‘Oooh, that Merlin’s such a good boy!’ That’s what they all say. If only they knew what you’re doing on your own time!” He wagged his fingers, pulled a face, and Merlin smiled.

 

“So you’re not… Really, really mad?”

 

“Life is short,” Will said pragmatically, reaching up to retrieve his things and untangle the knot. “I’m okay with your trusting me enough now. No one else knows, right? You haven’t been lifting up girls’ skirts to impress boys down by the yard?”

 

“You know I’d only do that for you. Why, did you have anyone particular in mind?”

 

“Yes!” Will exclaimed, scrambling to face him. “Wait, you didn’t mean that, did you?”

 

“Maybe,” Merlin said, warm in the sun and feeling a lot lighter than before, willing to entertain ideas he wouldn’t have before.

 

“Do something now,” Will demanded as they climbed down. Merlin looked around, checking for something simple but showy, before the solution occurred to him in a quick, dirty flash. It would take a lot of concentration, and he wasn’t even sure he could do it, but if he could it would solve all his problems. He could even miraculously fix it after this was all over.

 

He focused on the small, precarious outcropping far above their plateau, thought for a moment about what it would look like falling down, how it would settle down into an inaccessible wall, or at least one that would take more work to dismantle than Will would extend. He hoped that his effort to take that from imagination and _send it_, not actually into Will’s head, but like a picture painted on the air, covering reality, would come through. Will sucked in a breath, mouth falling open. He was more than impressed, even when Merlin lied and said he couldn’t undo it.

 

Back at home, after he’d left Will still a little shocked and starry-eyed, apparently imagining Merlin working some unspecified spell to draw every eligible young lady within fifty miles into Will’s yard, he was grateful to finally go home, close the door behind him and sit down to dinner with his mother.

 

He filled up the meal with a thorough recounting of every fantastic thing that had happened over the past few days. He gesticulated to emphasise the details: how very ridiculous Arthur was; how serious the knights, all their intense questions lending the quiet countryside a little too much potential for danger; and how silly the rest of them, trying to maintain their manners while they ate beans and meat off of stones.

 

She listened, laughed when he told her about Arthur facing down poor Cador in Holtham and seemed impressed by Morgana. It was obviously all overshadowed, though, and he couldn’t understand why each new tidbit made her smiles more wistful, until finally he stopped and asked her what was the matter.

 

She looked at him with so open an expression of fondness, of love that he couldn’t imagine what to say or do back.

 

“I’m so very proud of you, Merlin,” she said, and wouldn’t elaborate.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin was ready when Arthur showed up the next day, early again and without his equine escort. He wasn’t actually wearing any armour, just a simple linen tunic, but still had a sword belted across his hips.

 

As soon as Merlin stepped outside, Arthur tossed him a heavy bundle.

 

“Food,” he said in reply to Merlin’s questioning look.

 

“Was I appointed your manservant yesterday?” he retorted, throwing it back.

 

Arthur caught it reflexively, stared down like he’d never seen it before in his life.

 

“I carried it all the way here, and Morgana said we’re to share, it’s only division of labour.”

 

He concentrated so hard on not rolling his eyes that he missed it when Arthur lobbed the package back, managing to shoot his hands out only quick enough to fumble it to the ground.

 

“Be careful, Merlin, that’s lunch,” Arthur told him archly, and somehow managed to stalk off, without any assistance, in the right direction.

 

Merlin trotted after him for a bit before his revelation: “Arthur, did you _follow_ me?”

 

Arthur, who was still inexplicably in the lead, looked back. “What? No, I had quite a number of better things to do than trail you like a puppy.”

 

“Well, then how do you know where to go?’

 

Arthur stopped. “Not exactly, then.”

 

“Not exactly what?”

 

“I did _not exactly_ follow you.”

 

“You’ll have to elaborate, because so far I’m not finding a distinction.”

 

“I really don’t have to explain myself to you,” Arthur said, looking at him over a broad shoulder, “but if you must know, I waited around for enough time to make sure you weren’t meeting someone who would be dangerous to us, and then I followed you for long enough to make sure you weren’t going to another town, and then I stopped.”

 

“So you didn’t follow me, you just don’t trust me? I think I’ve done enough for you all to have earned that much.”

 

Arthur turned around fully, looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not taking any chances with their safety, Merlin. None at all, so get used to it.”

 

Merlin found he couldn’t fault Arthur for that, even though it still stung that Arthur didn’t trust him after everything Merlin had done for him, for them all.

 

“Fine,” he conceded. “Did I allay your suspicions adequately?” He started walking again, letting Arthur go after him now.

 

“Well, I could do with some more information on that Will fellow.”

 

“You absolutely don’t have to worry about Will. Besides, I didn’t tell him anything.”

 

Arthur continued to prod him about Will’s family and history. The fact that Will’s father had died a knight seemed absurdly to have a double effect. It boosted Arthur’s confidence in Will’s trustworthiness, but he was also concerned that since he’d died for Cendred, Will’s loyalty was already given to the enemy.

 

“Will hates Cendred,” Merlin assured him, but this didn’t actually help, only sent him into throes of worry that Will was a traitor.

 

“I don’t think you understand what it’s like for us,” Merlin tried to explain. “Cendred doesn’t come here, he doesn’t send anyone here, he’s not a part of our lives at all. Will blames him for his father’s death, and he’s never had anything else to consider from Cendred at all.”

 

“You all don’t send representatives to the tournaments or the festivals?”

 

“Definitely not!” Merlin laughed. “There’s none here who could afford that, and they’re not held for our benefit, anyway.”

 

Arthur started to look intrigued as the ridge loomed over them, so effective a barrier that it was obvious why Cendred expended the effort to keep Ealdor under his power.

 

“Merlin, are you going to lead me straight up the top of Aesctir? Because I think that’s not considered to be practical.”

 

“Have a little faith,” Merlin said, and then he started up.

 

It was obvious that once Arthur knew the way, he’d easily outstrip Merlin, judging by his easy confidence in the brief climb. Merlin was perfectly comfortable in his physical abilities, especially since he knew they were considerably augmented by his magical ones, but it was even more clear now how Arthur outclassed him than in their brief sparring match in the woods. Arthur moved with the utmost confidence in his body and its capabilities, taking tiny risks and leaps as he went, utterly aware of himself at all times.

 

Quite a thing to behold, if Arthur didn’t realise you were watching and inject a cocky little extra swagger.

 

“A little small,” Arthur pronounced, turning with his hands on his hips, “but otherwise quite good, actually. Well done, Merlin. I’m surprised.”

 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Right.”

 

He supposed Arthur was right, though; what had been for Merlin and Will just somewhere to go and see farther than their small town, see everything until the horizon and lay in the sunlight without some farmer or another calling them lazy, would be excellent for Arthur’s knights to practice. It was a small plain, jutting out of the ridge, above the forest but not high enough to be inconvenient, with a slight natural barrier of stone all around. Merlin imagined some unknown people had hewn it out long ago for some sort of fantastic purpose, ceremony or gathering or even martial practice ground like Arthur intended. In truth, he couldn’t help but want it to be magical.

 

“You don’t need the horses, do you?” he asked.

 

“Not for now,” Arthur said. “They’ve been pushed a lot recently, and they don’t really like standing in the woods all the time to begin with. Once I figure out what to do with them, we’ll start drilling them again. No, this is for the men, they need it more than the horses.”

 

Now Merlin was surprised, as well, because that was more consideration and insight than he’d been expecting for Arthur, who usually seemed like he was better at viewing his people on a whole than individually, unless some sort of issue with one was thrust into his face.

 

“Did you ever figure out why Morgana wanted me?”

 

Arthur looked at him archly. “Obviously that was at the top of my to-do list, Merlin. Make sure everyone has food, no one’s wounds are festering, and, oh yes, why did Morgana need Merlin again?”

 

“Well, you kind of owe me, don’t you? Making sure she doesn’t kill me the next time she sees me would be considerate.”

 

“You’ll have to remind me what I owe you for.”

 

It was obvious at this point -- it had been obvious all along – that they were going nowhere, but Merlin found he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t mind continuing in the vein of Arthur being an obvious jerk, especially since it was all a little playful and he knew it wasn’t actually the core of Arthur’s personality. The way Arthur could be so intentionally, childishly belligerent was mostly just funny.

 

“What did you tell Will?”

 

“About you? Nothing, I already told you that.”

 

“No, about here.”

 

“Oh, well…” How was he going to explain this? “I kind of led him to believe that it was impassable, that something had happened to the path up.”

 

“How’d you do that? How do you know he won’t come up to check?”

 

This was probably something he should have expected. “Ah, you see, I just, kind of—”

 

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupted, and Merlin cringed inwardly, because he really hadn’t wanted to have this conversation _now_.

 

But instead of the intent, suspicious look Merlin had been expecting to see, Arthur wasn’t even looking at him. His head was turned; as Merlin watched his body followed, so Merlin did as well.

 

“That’s not the camp, is it?”

 

A plume of smoke was rising up, expanding as it went but fortunately not very broad at its source, fortunately because Arthur was incorrect, it wasn’t coming from the fields at all, but…

 

“Mum!” Merlin gasped, and took off like an arrow.

 

Arthur grabbed his wrist after he stumbled, once, and Merlin appreciated that he didn’t waste the time to ask if he was all right. He didn’t move his fingers, either because he was actually worried Merlin would trip again or as some sort of steadying influence, Merlin didn’t know.

 

It became obvious, as he ran, that they weren’t proceeding at a normal pace. Merlin had long legs; he could run quickly when he desired, but this was almost a tangible sense of being _pulled_ along, at least to Merlin. He hoped Arthur didn’t know, just attributed it to unfamiliar territory, but if it came down to appeasing Arthur versus keeping his mother safe, she’d win every time.

 

He led them back around his own house, came to a halt just outside the woods, enough to survey the area. The smoke was thin, but there was enough to smell here, enough to spread a faint ominous cloud. No one outside his house, but that didn’t assuage his fear in any way. He started forward again, a little slower, quieter.

 

“No, you stay here,” he whispered, when he realised Arthur was still following.

 

“I’m not letting you rush into this alone,” Arthur hissed back.

 

“What are you going to do, run in brandishing your sword and hope they back down before the might of Camelot? You can’t risk yourself, you’re not even wearing any armour.”

 

“Merlin, if your mother’s in any danger, I’m not just sitting here.”

 

“All right,” he relented, “all right, fine, but we’re checking my house first, and try to stay out of sight after that.”

 

Arthur snorted, and really, “try to stay out of sight” was a little ridiculous. Merlin rushed as quietly as he could around the back, moving to open the door, but Arthur thrust out a hand, palm held flat in an obvious quelling gesture. He made some sort of other obscure signal, apparently ignoring the fact that Merlin would obviously have no idea what he meant, before starting forward himself, flinging open the door and jumping inside with his sword held ready.

 

“Hunith,” he said, and Merlin followed him in just in time to hear a masculine yell, and to see one of his mother’s pots go flying past the doorway. Arthur dodged it easily, leapt towards the attacker, who made to pick up a cooking knife, a brash gesture against the experienced, easy way Arthur swooped his sword.

 

“Will!” Merlin yelled, for it _was_ Will, moving in front of Merlin’s mother with eyes that widened in recognition.

 

“What’s going on, Merlin?” Will asked, lowering the blade.

 

Merlin ignored him, crossing over to Hunith. “Mum?” he asked, because she was holding her head strangely, turned to one side so she was looking almost from the corner of her eyes. He put his hand on her chin and pressed, gently, until she turned to face him, and he could see the fresh blood and puffy torn skin, the bruise that he knew would get worse before it got better.

 

“Who did this to you?” he demanded, filled with a sudden rush of anger and helplessness. He wished he could turn back time, could stop the hand of whoever had dared this and break it.

 

Hunith raised her hand to meet his, cool fingers pulling it back down. “I’ll be fine, Merlin, it’s really nothing. This is nothing, but we’ve still got…”

 

“Bandits,” Will finished, a little too loud. His face looked more petulant than anything else. “I guess you were busy, which is really too bad because you probably could have helped.”

 

“Will!” Merlin shouted.

 

Hunith looked between them, obviously understanding what Will was implying.

 

“Merlin, help against bandits?” Arthur repeated, eyebrow up incredulously. “I suppose I’d pay to see that, if I were into bloodsport.”

 

Which of course set Will off; Arthur’s flashy sword and confident, condescending tones were everything he’d taught himself to hate. He lashed out with just the sort of fiery unfocused vitriol Arthur was good against, all calm cutting voice like he didn’t care what Will thought of him -- and he probably didn’t. If he did, then he’d absolutely never let anyone know it. Merlin chose to let them glower at each other, focusing instead on his mother’s face.

 

“Mother, what happened?”

 

“William spoke truly. We’ve been ordered to turn over all our remaining crops or be killed. They’ll be back in a fortnight.”

 

“But that’s—” Merlin started

 

“Why do you not go to Cendred?” Arthur asked, with a frown that looked honestly confused, even after his own dealings with the King.

 

“I fear these are the same men who attacked Claipol last fall. Cendred didn’t help them and he won’t help us.”

 

Arthur’s frown deepened. “Shall I have Merlin fetch Gaius, then?”

 

“I’m not fetching Gaius! I’m staying here, you can go!”

 

“If they come back, I’ll be considerably more help than you.”

 

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “There’s no need to drag Gaius all the way out here, and I’m quite sure they won’t be back for a fortnight like they said. They’ve no other reason to bother us.”

 

“Is he your doctor friend?” Will asked. “Well, then it might be best, I heard Mark took a blow upside the head that’s causing concern.”

 

Merlin thought unhappily that if this were true, he’d have to leave, because Gaius was necessary and Arthur stubborn.

 

“No, I’ll go,” said Arthur, forestalling Merlin’s making to leave with a raised hand. “You stay with your mother.”

 

Merlin was, crushingly appreciative of the gesture, to be able to personally ensure her safety, and he also felt a sobering press of empathy for Arthur, so recently orphaned.

 

“Thank you,” he said. All Arthur did to acknowledge this was turn his head back once and meet Merlin’s eyes, before he loped out in the afternoon sun and vanished into the trees.

 

“Not right now, Will,” Merlin said in the succeeding silence. He went outside, onto the main path. There weren’t many people out, but the ones he saw had a hunted, shocked look about them, not really focusing their eyes and taking halting steps.

 

The people of Ealdor had never been a powerful, warlike bunch, but they’d been happy and boisterous and confident and seeing them so made him almost as angry as watching his mother’s face swell after a blow from a craven raider. She was strong, was already recovered, but these people were obviously not.

 

Of course, by the time Arthur returned with Gaius, both of them riding, Merlin had been tugged aside by both his mother and Will separately for personalised discussions. Will had followed him outside and started quizzing him about Arthur, face constantly disapproving and questions increasingly accusatory, ignoring Merlin’s assurances that Arthur was basically good at heart. His mother had stared at Will until his face flooded with understanding and he ducked out, before she proceeded to give him a lecture on his gift and secrecy, basically the same one he’d heard before.

 

He was saved from actually having to confirm her suspicions by the arrival of Gaius and Arthur, who had put on his armour again like he expected the raiders to jump out of Merlin’s eaves.

 

Arthur watched as Gaius checked over Hunith’s eye, deciding it would heal and recommending some treatment for the bruise that was already starting to darken.

 

“You are well, Hunith?” Arthur asked, using the most careful voice Merlin had ever heard from him. He wondered whether Arthur was just apprehensive around maternal figures or if it was something particular about Merlin’s mother herself.

 

She gave him one of her best looks, the ones filled with care and compassion. “Of course I am, your highness, thank you.”

 

Arthur pressed for more information on the bandits: what sort of weaponry did they have? How many were they? Did they ride? What threats did they make? until only the two of them were talking, Merlin and Gaius just listening to the increasingly detailed questions and the answers Hunith tried her best to provide.

 

“And you do not want to just let them do as they will and eventually starve?” Arthur asked finally, after Hunith had reiterated that fulfilling their demands would surely kill most of the townsfolk.

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Good, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he said, and raised an arm, stopped it halfway, then turned towards Merlin instead and clapped him roughly on his shoulder. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

 

“Start what?” Merlin asked.

 

“Your defence, Merlin,” Arthur replied, back to his boy-you-sure-are-slow tone. “You want to fight, we’re going to help.”

 

“Why?” was all Merlin could ask, because he couldn’t even begin to find the answer to the real question: how?

 

“I’ve encountered men like this before. At heart they’re cowards, if you stand up to them, they’ll leave you alone. Besides, I pity your mother—”

 

Merlin’s mouth dropped open.

 

“—For having to put up with you for so long. It would be wrong of me to abandon her.”

 

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Arthur reappeared the next morning, this time with Tom the blacksmith. Gaius had stayed with Merlin again, after seeing to Mark’s head injury and a host of other minor injuries, almost none of them sustained during the attack itself.

 

Everyone was still tense and worried, and almost no one was seeing to their daily chores, so when Arthur strode importantly into the middle of town and began making a grand speech – apparently forgetting entirely that he was supposed to be in hiding and immediately announcing his title -- about standing up to evil and fighting for your home, he immediately amassed an audience.

 

Everyone was practically eating out of his hand, shouting in agreement when Arthur paused for breath and then starting up a chant, and really, if Merlin hadn’t seen Arthur at his worst: dirty and yelling at Morgana in a marketplace; standing over Merlin in a forest, sword drawn; passed out cold from exhaustion atop a horse, he might have been pretty stirred, as well. Or perhaps this knowledge made him actually _believe_ what Arthur said, not just out of a desperate need for hope, but also out of knowing that Arthur was in fact preaching what he believed. Arthur would fight for his home, would have probably died fighting for Camelot if he’d been able.

 

It was clear that he did need some sort of magical protecting, if only from himself.

 

Even Will’s shouted protests were quickly overridden, and only Merlin seemed concerned when Will stalked off, angry.

 

“What the fuck, Merlin?” Will yelled when Merlin followed him into his closed house. “What the absolute bloody fuck?”

 

“Will, you’re being unreasonable—”

 

“What do you even know about him? What is he _doing_ here? He’s got no right to barge in like this, and he’s going to get everyone killed!”

 

“You’re wrong, Will. I know he’s something of a prat, but this is what he _does_, and if he says we can beat them, I believe him.”

 

“Is this something personal, then? Are you just going to let him lead us all to our deaths because you _fancy_ him?”

 

Merlin paused, shocked.

 

“We could do with your help, Will, when you decide to stop being an idiot,” he said, turned on his heel, and walked out.

 

Arthur was beginning to lead the men in enthusiastic drills on the basics of fighting, while Tom looked over their spare tools to see what he could work with. Merlin watched Arthur for a few minutes before we went to find Gaius. Arthur seemed to be honestly enjoying himself as he corrected Jonah’s stance, moving one of the baker’s feet forward and then nodding in approval. Jonah fairly glowed.

 

“Isn’t Arthur supposed to be hiding?” he asked Gaius, who was helpfully carrying the remains of yesterday’s meals to the pig’s slop bucket.

 

Gaius looked expressively sour. “I was under that impression, as well, but His Highness has ever been the impetuous sort. I suppose Ealdor isn’t really a big rumour mill, and I’d also like to imagine he’ll earn their loyalty. Do you think there’s anyone in particular we should be concerned with?”

 

“I’d be surprised if any of them even knew,” Merlin admitted. “And right now they’re too glad he’s here to question him. Will doesn’t like him, of course, but I don’t think he’d go so far as to turn him in.”

 

“I hope you’re very sure of that, Merlin.”

 

So did he.

 

 

* * *

 

Though the bandits had said they’d return in a week, Arthur organised patrols to range the borders, while Tom brought Gwen and the two of them sharpened and reshaped farming instruments into weapons. In between sessions with the villagers, Arthur taught Merlin himself, though in truth Merlin was making poor progress and the private lessons were obviously not helping. Arthur gave him a sword, anyway. Merlin didn’t ask where he got it. Occasionally he would see Will, passing quickly on the outskirts of town, but whenever Merlin went to his house, he was gone.

 

On the third day, everything changed. Merlin was eating with Arthur and Gaius when a man ran, screaming, from the far fields. It was Eren, who’d been on patrol with Brent and Coran – who were nowhere in sight.

 

Arthur immediately jumped up to meet him, and listened intently as he described an ambush in the forest, Brent and Coran nowhere to be found.

 

“Was it the same men who came before?” Arthur demanded. Eren nodded.

 

The commotion drew an agitated crowd, and Brent’s wife immediately started wailing, when Merlin noticed two riders coming from the same direction as Eren.

 

“Arthur,” he murmured, and Arthur immediately looked at him, then saw the riders himself.

 

“Come on.”

 

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed you fools, trying to get ready to fight,” one of the riders announced as they got closer, a wild-looking man with shorn dark hair and a silver scar across one eye. “I don’t know who you peasants think you are, but it’s going to take a lot more than that to beat Kanen. Let me give you some advice: give us what we want, and we might only kill half of you, but keep this up and we’ll kill you all.”

 

Arthur, eyes blazing, drew himself to full height. At least, Merlin thanked fate, he’d taken off his armour to eat. “I am –”

 

“It doesn’t matter who we are!” Merlin interrupted. “What matters is that each and everyone one of us is going to fight. You’re not going to get away with this.”

 

“Each and every one of you, eh? Well, I put paid to that statement right now.” He gestured to the other rider, and they both shoved a bulky mass off the back of their horses, two heavy thumps on the ground. A laboured, groaning gasp came from one.

 

“You’ve got four more days,” said the rider.

 

“Are you Kanen?” Arthur demanded.

 

“That I am.”

 

Arthur stepped forward, ignoring the restraining hand Merlin wrapped around one wrist. “I’ll remember to deal with you myself.”

 

Kanen laughed. “You may have muscle, boy, and daring, too, but ploughing a field won’t give you what you need to beat me. Four days.” Arthur, prudent for once, remained silent as they galloped away, but he kept his eyes on Kanen until he vanished from sight.

 

Brent and Coran were both alive – but Kanen had broken their legs, proving what he’d claimed: not all of them would be able to fight in four days.

 

“There’s nothing for it,” Arthur said enigmatically, but the next day when he arrived with Tom and Gwen as usual, he was accompanied by four of his knights, including Cador, whom Merlin recognised from the trip to Holtham.

 

The people, who had been a little low last night, were almost manically refreshed. If Merlin hadn’t been aware of how serious Arthur had to think this in order to bring the knights in, he would have laughed at how the village boys hung off their every word and the girls doubled their rounds with pitchers of fresh water. Even the knights who were brusque with the villagers had admirers, and the friendly ones were scarcely able to move without being offered meals or clothes mending or being begged for stories.

 

Merlin both liked when they obliged this request and worried, for most of their stories were about campaigning with Uther, and it was apparent to Merlin that Arthur wasn’t yet able to distance himself from his father’s death and enjoy the tales of his skill and valour. So Merlin would try to distract him, would ask him about why Morgana had come (either because she was bored without Gwen or she wanted to annoy Arthur, it varied), about Tom’s progress or about who remained in the woods with the other citizens of Camelot. Arthur would relax when he wasn’t hearing about his father, would laugh, and though as often as not he was laughing at Merlin instead of with him, Merlin found he honestly didn’t mind.

 

But all the idyllic moments in the world couldn’t keep them from knowing that the appointed time was drawing closer. Every day the villagers improved, but Merlin didn’t think they were all good enough to stand on their own, and Arthur’s men weren’t enough to protect them all and fight.

 

And fight they would have to do, for all their fine armour spoke of higher things than a hamlet of farmers and their shields boasted Camelot’s rearing dragon. Merlin had kept Arthur from revealing himself directly to Kanen, but unless they shucked all their armour and fought with cannibalised farm implements, it wasn’t going to be secret much longer.

 

Which led to the issue: were Arthur and his knights going to kill every one of Kanen’s men? What is he brought fifty? Whenever Merlin tried to bring this up, Arthur brushed his concerns aside, but Merlin couldn’t tell if that meant he wasn’t worried at all, or he just didn’t want to discuss it.

 

The night before the appointed day, Merlin tried one last time to talk to Will, who was finally, perhaps intentionally, not gone when Merlin showed up.

 

“Did you tell me because you were guilty?”

 

“Tell you about what? And guilty about what, for that matter.”

 

“The magic. You can’t have told _him_, even _I_ know what they do to sorcerers in Camelot.”

 

“No,” said Merlin, “I haven’t told Arthur about my magic.”

 

“So you’re just going to pretend, tomorrow, that all you can do is swing some sword around like an idiot, when we both know you could end the whole thing without any of us getting hurt.”

 

“Will, _I_ know what they do to sorcerers in Camelot, too. And maybe you haven’t noticed in all of your ridiculous creeping around, but there’s five knights of Camelot out there, not to mention the crown prince whose father has just been killed by a magician, so I’m not really feeling up to testing the limits of their prejudice right now.”

 

“His father… what?”

 

Merlin elaborated a little bit, using no real details but still feeling a little guilty. It wasn’t his story to share, but he’d already hinted enough that he didn’t want Will to jump to his own conclusions.

 

“But none of that really matters, Will,” he finished. “We can win this, and do you really want to be sitting here alone or hiding in the woods when we do?”

 

Will was silent when Merlin left, staring sullenly at his feet.

 

 

* * *

 

Arthur and his knights slept scattered throughout town that night, and Gwen and Morgana as well. They had pressed Arthur to be able to fight until, distracted by Eren’s nearly taking his own eye out with a sharpened hoe, he relented. All three were in Merlin’s house, while Hunith, who had absolutely insisted on giving up her bed, shared with Hilde, a widow down the road. Merlin hadn’t wanted to leave her there, until Gawain had promised to stay on the floor.

 

That night, while listening to Gwen and Morgana’s hushed conference, of which he could only make out his own name and Arthur’s, Merlin had to push the prince’s feet out of his face so many times that he finally flopped over, turning his head the other way so that all Arthur’s ticklish feet would meet was Merlin’s hair. In a way, this worked out better, because Arthur couldn’t feel Merlin’s pounding heart, the way Merlin could feel Arthur’s whole body, pressed warm all along his left side.

 

 

* * *

 

Later Merlin wouldn’t remember much of the battle. Morgana told him later that he’d acquitted himself well, though he’d never know if she meant it or was just trying to distract him.

 

He knew the villagers had fought fiercely, had followed Arthur’s plan as well as untrained fighters could. He remembered the knights as individual whirling dervishes, who pursued the raiders after they tried to focus on the weaker citizens of Ealdor.

 

He had one clear memory of Arthur, parrying a strong but amateur thrust by catching it on one greave, pivoting his wrist so the edge caught in the lip, and then sliding his arm down, firm and quick, until he could wrap one hand over the grip of his opponent’s sword and smash his other elbow into his face.

 

He would always remember Will, who appeared, still looking a little sullen but very determined, right before the first of Kanen’s men fell into Arthur’s trap.

 

Somehow Arthur, who’d managed to keep an eye on every flailing citizen of Ealdor the entire time, missed the one person who was in a position to actually hurt him. Merlin almost missed him, too, the man who took the opportunity presented when he was sent staggering back several paces by a blow from Sir Kay. He stumbled almost directly into Arthur, but righted himself and turned around, raising his mace in a trajectory that would have concussed a man with a helm, but would almost certainly kill Arthur, who wasn’t even wearing his mail hood.

 

Merlin’s hand swept out in an unconscious arc, thrusting the man back supernaturally just as Kay yelled, “Sire!” Arthur turned, only heard the yell and saw the man who flew back with too much force. His eyes widened, narrowed, and he ignored the battle around him, looked for a sickening second over Merlin, whose hand was still clenched down at his side.

 

But then he looked right past again, and Merlin followed his gaze over to Will, whose face was staring between them at the man on the ground, freshly killed by Kay. One of his hands was raised in a limp, indeterminate gesture.

 

“Don’t--!” Will called, but he never got to finish, because Kanen and one of his men converged together on Arthur.

 

Merlin didn’t know what to do, staring blankly until Will hissed, next to him, “What were you _thinking_?” which was enough to snap him back from his thoughts of Arthur trying kill him, or Arthur never speaking to him again.

 

Only Arthur was striding back, long and determined steps. Kanen lay motionless behind him.

 

“Which one of you did that?”

 

“Arthur—” Merlin began.

 

“No,” Arthur interrupted, cold, “I know magic when I see it. Which one of you was it?” He looked between them quickly, and Merlin immediately noticed his hand, white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword though the battle was decidedly over, and his whole body went cold.

 

So again Merlin missed it, too wrapped up in watching Arthur, and it was Will whose gaze sharpened and mouth fell open, Will who yelled a warning and followed it by leaping, pushing Arthur out of the way of Kanen’s crossbolt, Will who ended up with it sticking out of his own chest instead.

 

Maybe he couldn’t remember anything else because it was all centred on _this_, on Will choking and bleeding and claiming responsibility for the magic, and then everyone else vanishing, so Will’s final moments were just Merlin gasping out empty reassurances and trying to say everything he’d never thought he would need to say.

 

There was a pyre for Will that he suspected his mother had organised. Merlin stood next to her, silent and still wearing his borrowed chain mail – Arthur’s chain mail, he’d fought in only an odd assemblage of armour, and no one could touch him.

 

Afterwards, he sat on the floor at Will’s, looking at the bare stand where Will’s father’s doublet had been displayed, burned now with his son. Ealdor went on, a little grimmer then before but satisfied, their only casualty a youth with no family and no future.

 

That was where Arthur found him, smelling of smoke from the burning of Kanen’s men. He’d doffed his armour at some point, and both his tunic and his hair were dishevelled and sweaty. He didn’t sit, so Merlin stood.

 

“Did you know?”

 

Merlin thought about denying it, but in some overwrought way he felt he owed Will more than that, even though acknowledging it in any way just served to deepen the deception. He nodded.

 

Arthur moved closer, not angry like Merlin had thought he’d be, and took one of his shoulders in an awkward grip.

 

“Merlin, I know you thought he was your friend, but you can’t trust sorcerers—”

 

“Trust me, you have no idea what I’m thinking.” He walked out, absolutely unwilling to listen to this any longer and sick with how different the truth would have made the whole scene, but he paused at the threshold, turning back and gripping the jamb with one hand.

 

“Before this -- no, before Camelot was attacked, had you any experience with magic at all?”

 

“Of course, not, my father—”

 

“So that means that so far, your father’s been attacked by people whose family and friends he had murdered, and you’ve had your life saved by someone who’d never even liked you at all. That doesn’t sound like pure evil to me.”

 

“You don’t get to—”

 

Merlin didn’t hear the rest. He started walking, then took off running, ignoring the cumbersome hissing chain mail, a sibilant chorus with every step. He shucked it carelessly, ignoring its accusatory heavy clink.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin knew that Arthur was still in the village, but he avoided him for two more days, while Ealdor rebuilt its damaged buildings and Gaius kept busy mending damaged bodies. Merlin used this as his excuse, disappearing into the woods all day under the guise of gathering supplies. Often, he would find himself in a place he associated with Will, and then just stand, overwhelmed by sorrow and memories and guilt.

 

Finally, Gaius asked him to take a sleeping draught to Morgana, who apparently suffered from nightmares. Sensing an obvious trick, he hedged that it was getting dark, too late to make the trek through the woods.

 

Gaius looked shocked. “Merlin, Morgana’s here.”

 

“What? Now?” Merlin looked frantically around.

 

“Not in this room,” Gaius said with a melodramatic sigh of exasperation. “In town. Everyone from Camelot is.”

 

“Everyone?”

 

“Indeed. I didn’t realise you’d been oblivious to quite everything that’s happened.” He held up a forestalling hand. “I’m not criticising you, Merlin.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“I believe she and Gwen are staying with Hilde. She’ll be glad of this, they’re a regular occurrence and this is the first I’ve been able to prepare.”

 

“What causes them?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“The dreams. It’s just, I’ve never known anyone to have recurring nightmares unless they were a result of something.”

 

Gaius looked at him sharply. “We don’t usually discuss them. Now get on, she’s waiting.”

 

Morgana was happy to see him, and not even for the concoction he was bearing. “Merlin! It’s good to see you,” she said, smiling her brilliant smile. She was indeed in Hilde’s small home, but neither Gwen nor the owner was in sight.

 

“Lady Morgana,” he replied, not sure what else to say. He handed her the vial and she swallowed it with a slight grimace.

 

“Thank you. I believe I’ve been keeping Gwen up, and possibly Hilde, too.”

 

“Oh, well… Hopefully not anymore?”

 

“Exactly,” she replied, with another wide perfect grin, like they were sharing a secret.

 

“Okay, well, ah… good, then,” he said, moving to leave because, despite their small adventure together, he really didn’t know Morgana, and the wise way she was watching him probably didn’t bode well.

 

“Sit down. I have something to say. It will be brief, I promise.” He sat. “Good. It’s about Arthur.”

 

“Lady Morgana--”

 

“Just listen. I’m sure you’re aware how Arthur’s father felt about magic. Okay, and also how there’s never been a single person in Arthur’s entire life who told him otherwise, or even hinted?”

 

That made sense, though he hadn’t exactly thought of it in so many words.

 

“Now, you’ve obviously noticed that Arthur and I don’t always get along, but I know him well. In Camelot, he hunted and won tournaments, and he trained the knights and he stood next to Uther when he needed to, but Uther didn’t allow him to think for himself. Forbade it, in fact. Now he’s _got_ to, all the time, and I can only imagine he’s falling back on Uther when he can’t deal with something himself. And when your friend William did what he did, well, that goes against everything he’s ever been told about sorcerers. I’m sure he said something stupid, but I guess what I’m trying to say is give him time to think about it for himself.”

 

Merlin nodded.

 

“We’ve all seen how this is changing Arthur – he’s even learning everyone’s names -- but you can’t expect him to discard everything he’s ever been taught – and in Camelot, few things were taught more stridently than the evil of magic – right after one incident.

 

“I’m telling you, Merlin, because I’ve honestly, not in my life, ever seen anyone Arthur might call a friend, and I don’t want it wasted just because you two are both silly boys who can’t actually talk about anything.” She looked at him for a long moment, but he didn’t really know what to say back. If he chose to heed her words, it was something for him to work through on his own.

 

Fortunately, Gwen came back in, carrying a large blanket. Hilde smiled behind her, and he slipped out after a perfunctory greeting to both.

 

He could understand Morgana’s logic, and what she said also fit with what he’d observed of Arthur in the short time he’d known him.

 

Dusk was falling, the last pinks and yellows seeping from the sky and giving way to a deep blue-black. It was a little chilly, but he still didn’t want to go directly home. He veered west, cut across the wheat fields over to his favourite climbing tree. If he got high enough, there was only a thin lace of leaves between him and stars.

 

He still didn’t understand why Will had done it. Perhaps he hadn’t thought the bolt would hit him in Arthur’s stead? He couldn’t imagine that Will was actually swayed by Merlin’s words about Arthur as a person, especially since sometimes it was hard for even _Merlin_ to remember.

 

Could he really spend his life at Arthur’s side, turning him into a strong, stubborn, good-hearted king? Did he want to? Did he have a choice? Arthur had already proven himself a better man than Cendred, at less than half the old king’s age. What sort of wisdom and compassion could that grow into?

 

Of course, thinking into the future ignored the problems of right now, which quite frankly Merlin wasn’t sure could be overcome. Could Arthur think past his father’s prejudices? He didn’t know how far he’d be able to take this deception, or even how far he wanted to.

 

He didn’t climb down until the sky was black, poorly lit under a waning moon. He was making his back around the field when he found himself thudding into the ground, rolling over and crushing wheat stalks in his wake, and his momentary flash of wondering if he should panic was quickly quelled by the realisation that, uh, he recognised the _smell_ of the person hovering heavy over him.

 

“Again, Arthur? Really?” he asked into the ground, and he could feel it in Arthur, too: the instant of awareness.

 

“Merlin?” Arthur rolled off quickly.

 

“You were expecting someone else?” He sat up, scrubbed his head with both hands to get the wheat kernels out, but the amused look on Arthur’s face probably meant he hadn’t succeeded.

 

“No, I just thought you’d be… home, or wherever you’ve been.” Arthur hadn’t sat up, he was just lying on his side, leaning on one forearm with the other hand flat on the ground in front of him, digging slowly into the dirt. “How did you know it was me?”

 

“I don’t know anyone else who’s made a frequent habit of knocking down passers-by for fun.”

 

“Well, someone needs to keep an eye on everyone, just in case.”

 

“Do you think there’s still danger?” Merlin asked, peering into the wheat, dusky and silent and obscuring.

 

“Not really, I think we killed most of them, and the ones left won’t be coming back here. I know their type.”

 

“Have you been in many battles?”

 

“That wasn’t a battle, not by any real standards. My father carried out great campaigns, with tens of thousands of men, those are battles. I’ve not experienced anything like that, but sometimes these sort of men do think villages on the outskirts of Camelot will be easy pickings, and those aren’t – weren’t – worth my father’s attention, so I was sent.”

 

“But you – you fought for them?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said, meeting his eyes. “They were part of Camelot.”

 

“So you protect your own people, and now Cendred’s, as well?” Merlin lay back down, looking straight up into the stars.

 

“It’s not exactly like that, I mean, if I’d been here in any official sort of capacity, this could have been an act of war. I suppose Cendred started that, though.” There was a long pause, which Merlin didn’t break because it was obvious Arthur had something else to say.

 

“So I’ve fought before, I’ve been in fights and I’ve led them and put men into danger on my orders… But that’s the first time anyone’s ever put themselves directly into harm’s way just so that I wouldn’t be. It’s different. It feels… Wrong. It feels wrong.”

 

“Kings have to do that, I’m told.”

 

“So I’ve heard.”

 

Merlin reached a hand behind him, ran it across the wheat stalks they had trampled, a gentle swish back and forth, and he wondered what this would have been like, if they’d been discussing growing seasons and fairs instead of wars and Merlin’s best friend, dead. But if Gaius was right, that never would have been, because according to a dragon under a castle in a city held by evil magicians, this was Merlin’s destiny, to be here in a field talking of kings and duties.

 

Arthur’s eyes were trailing his fingers in the wheat, back and forth, but Merlin stilled it as soon as he came aware of the attention, and Arthur’s gaze slid down his arm, skipping to his ear, staying on his mouth. Things were maybe starting to make sense: the way Arthur didn’t tend to move away, either, when Merlin touched him for some reason or another; the reason that their walks – the ones that masqueraded as patrols – were taking longer and longer while the distance itself wasn’t increasing; the way Arthur watched Merlin"s hands whenever they were on him, intent and maybe even surprised.

 

“You were avoiding me,” Arthur observed. Merlin nodded. “But you’re not anymore?” No, though he hadn’t much choice this time.

 

“Good,” and even with all the staring Merlin wasn’t prepared for Arthur to lift his hand from the ground, where he’d dug four tiny channels, and run his dirty fingertips down Merlin’s face, stop them right at the obtuse curve of his jaw and _tilt_, so that it was at just the right angle for him to lean forward, but he stopped right when his face was at the most irregular distance, too close to be anything casual and too far to touch, and so Merlin was left to make up the difference himself.

 

He did; he pushed up and met Arthur’s mouth, enough force so they ended up on even terms, front pressed to front all the way down. Merlin could even balance the light pressure of their mouths by sliding his leg forward, wedging it between Arthur’s so that even their feet tangled, and then he pressed forward more, leaving the contact teasing but with obvious intent, lips hard but not pressing too deep. It was enough, now, to know how it felt to lick his lips and feel Arthur’s as well, and to take one hand and map out the strong bones of Arthur’s shoulder blades, surrounded by intricate muscles.

 

So then it made sense for Merlin to push, a little, for Arthur to roll over in their wheat mattress and let Merlin crawl on top of him, legs folded on either side of Arthur’s hips, almost drunk with the need to feel and to do absolutely everything at once; it was impossible to pause and focus on the sensation of Arthur’s strong hands roaming down his back and then up again before they wrapped firmly around him, impossible when he also wanted to memorise the hard line of Arthur’s collarbone under his hand, and move up to cup the muscles of his shoulder at the same time. Not to mention Arthur’s lips surging firm but soft against his own, unexpectedly eloquent and caring, even in their heat.

 

It wasn’t the best plan, because there was still so much left unsaid between them, and this would probably complicate things rather than simplify them, but as he drew back from Arthur, just long enough to move his hands to either side of Arthur’s face, jawbone strong against his palm, and to watch Arthur’s blue eyes looking back at him – all this before he moved back again, opening Arthur’s hot mouth with his own, he wasn’t sure he cared.

 

They lay in gentle stasis, tentative and mostly innocent, until Arthur sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and adjusted his arms so that one was long across Merlin’s back. With the other he lifted them up off the ground, until he was sitting up with Merlin awkward between his legs, knees jutting bony under his arms.

 

It seemed Arthur was actually very strong, so when Merlin tried to manoeuvre himself into a less ridiculous position, all it took was a slight tightening of Arthur’s arms and he was, oh, unable to move.

 

“God, just – let me—” and he was sure Arthur could feel the sharp jump in his cock that belied his annoyed tone, but he relaxed just enough for Merlin to get his knees on the ground and use the leverage to push right back in, suddenly heated and harried, lips hungry and hands hungrier, pushing under Arthur’s tunic until Arthur raised his arms obligingly and let Merlin pull it off. Then it was straight back to work, a new, or at least newly acknowledged, interest in the body leant up against his own.

 

The muscles on Arthur’s torso were dynamic, dimensional, but the skin stretched over them was so smooth, even when rough with hair over his chest, that Merlin couldn’t stop moving his hands over it. He realised that he was crawling forward, minute shifts of his knees to press closer, closer. With each one Arthur’s arms tightened correspondingly, until there was nowhere to go but vertical, and he was only pushing up and down with his hips.

 

Arthur made a sound, so close to a growl that Merlin couldn’t help but moan in response. With a burst of force he pushed forward, and suddenly they were lying on the ground again, Merlin flat on his back with his legs splayed open.

 

“I’m not a girl; you should really stop treating me like one.”

 

Arthur snorted. “I’m quite aware that you’re not a _girl_, Merlin,” he said, and pressed heavily down with his hips. Merlin could feel Arthur hard and hot against him. He moved in a writhing thrust up, they slid together and then their cocks caught firm; Arthur pressed forward with a rough moan, hips stuttering reflexively. The only thing left to do was wrap his legs firmly around Arthur’s until all he had to do was tighten their grip to bring them into sharper relief, and then any small movement he made was incredible, feeling Arthur’s cock against his own. They weren’t actually kissing, couldn’t manage it; instead their mouths were open, lips pressed together but passing nothing only hot breath between.

 

“That’s—” Arthur said, but his voice cut off and all he did was thrust his hand down between them to work at the laces on his trousers, but every yank rubbed his fingers across Merlin’s length, and he trembled in response.

 

“You too?” Arthur asked, and each syllable felt like a messy kiss.

 

“You’d better,” Merlin said, what he’d meant as a threat coming out more like pleading., but he didn’t care because Arthur moaned in approval, moved so they were flush and bare together. He could feel the precome slick on their heads, so they moved better without the layers between, but it wasn’t enough.

 

He arched his back, moving his head up just enough so he could lick a broad swath across his palm, twice, and wrap it around them both. The slick was gone quickly, but even that was enough to make their quick desperate thrusts more intense.

 

“Again,” said Arthur, so he obliged, again and again and again, quick wetted slips and then just his own hand, which felt foreign when Arthur was thick and hard between.

 

Suddenly Arthur moaned louder, let his mouth fall to Merlin’s neck, where he opened it to suck just below the sharp curve under Merlin’s chin, and his hips started jerking irregular and fast, moans vibrating louder and louder against Merlin’s neck until he was coming in hot spurts into Merlin’s hand. It was hot and wet just long enough for Merlin to choke out his own completion.

 

Merlin wiped his hand against the ruined stalks before it could get too crusty and pushed Arthur’s shoulder, just enough so he rolled off. Things suddenly had the potential to be very different, in a way he’d not really thought about before, for all the looks and loaded touches. It was one thing to realise that no, it hadn’t been quite necessary for Arthur to keep hold of his wrist like that, but it was a whole other thing to follow that through to all its possibilities, to wonder what sort of future it could lead to.

 

 

* * *

 

He’d woken up to Arthur prodding at his chest, gentle until Merlin just had rolled over with a small groan, heavy with sleep. He started in harder, along with some complaints about how the sun was rising and this probably wasn’t how they wanted to get caught, which was in fact true.

 

And then things were light as before, but with a new undertone that led to sudden, frantic interludes: Merlin losing the ability to stand, propped up against a tree with one leg hoisted over Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur’s mouth busily working up and down, taking more each time, moaning louder and louder until he suddenly sucked and Merlin was coming hard down his throat; trying to teach Merlin more swordcraft, his not convincing suggestion that to do it he needed to back Merlin up firmly against his torso, destroyed when his hand quite obviously drifted southward; nearly getting caught with their trousers down on the floor of Merlin’s kitchen.

 

The addition of the citizens of Camelot meant a greater labour pool and thus a much more plentiful growth of crops, even after Richard complained about one spot on the border of his wheat field that had mysteriously been decimated. More lookouts meant they lost no livestock to predators as bountiful spring gave way to hot summer, and Morgana’s money could go to a wider variety of necessities.

 

Gaius was constantly busy, between watching the health of his now larger flock and overseeing Merlin’s magical development.

 

Merlin’s day typically began with accompanying Arthur on a brief tour of the land surrounding Ealdor. Arthur kept a careful eye out for even the smallest differences, though so far all he’d found was a den of fox kits. They ranged through the forest like it was their own private territory, eschewing the roads and paths in favour of forging their own way. The plateau on the ridge, no longer necessary for the drills that were now done in the clearing behind Merlin’s house, became, for all intents and purposes, absolutely theirs, and they found an excuse to go there nearly every day. They might engage in some form of sex, as neither had exactly breached the topic of actual culmination yet, but sometimes they would just look out, watch the sun bleach all the rose out of the sky, leaving it cloudy and grey-blue over the lush treetops.

 

Thus went their mornings, and as time passed with no interruption of their leisurely border tours, they got more lax, moved slower and spent more time teasing each other than surveying the land.

 

In the afternoons, Arthur would usually work with the knights, and Merlin would vanish, under the pretence of his apprenticeship – which he was still obliged to fulfil -- with Gaius, who had pressed him to start testing his abilities, his limits. So far they hadn’t found any.

 

First Gaius had Merlin cast an arrow without a bow, and once Merlin could consistently hit a target several hundred feet away, Gaius had him stop it, first from the side, watching its trajectory, and then standing directly in its path. He stopped asking where Gaius had learned to shoot so well after the fifth inscrutable look.

 

Next there were tests of his reflexes, sudden spills or times when Gaius forgot to hold aside a branch that had been blocking their path for Merlin to pass by. He felt these were a little extraneous after he’d already proven his speed by keeping Arthur from splitting his head open on the road back from Holtham, but Gaius was adamant.

 

Merlin learned to stop obstacles of all sizes, to slow them or divert them or to bring them out of flight altogether, to apply these skills to objects of all shapes and substances, with straight trajectories or random.

 

While the book would have been useful to sit down and practice with, it was for now full of spells that came second to what Merlin could already instinctively do. Every afternoon Gaius would leave with a peculiar expression on his face, a little bit of apprehension and hope and Merlin didn’t know what else, because Gaius wouldn’t explain when asked.

 

Sometimes, when Arthur had given the knights the day off, or when they were needed to help the villagers, Gaius would disappear with him instead. When they returned Arthur was thoughtful and serious all night, until the next morning when Merlin would regale him with particularly ridiculous incidents of growing up in a small town, about the time Tor painted Ewain’s cow green in retaliation for something involving a woman, or how Thea couldn’t figure out what was happening to her wash on the line until she noticed a goat with a shred of her favourite skirt hanging from its beard. Sometimes Arthur would laugh and let Merlin crowd him up against a tree or into a haystack, sometimes he would still look pensive until Merlin made a comment ridiculous enough for him to get indignant and playful, and sometimes it was Merlin, whose stories often included Will, who would silence himself, for long moments in which he kept his eyes on his boots, sinking into the loam and desiccated leaves. Arthur wasn’t very good at ridiculous stories, but Merlin actually found his tales about a childhood in Camelot, frequently including Morgana in some sort of antagonistic position, more amusing than Arthur intended them.

 

After one such session with Gaius, though, he disappeared overnight. The knights were frantic once they realised, and started arcing out to search, but he reappeared the next day with ten dead rabbits and a flat expression that stayed with him until the next morning, when Merlin fell out a tree after trying to use both hands to untangle his neckerchief from a branch. That was the end of that neckerchief, and Merlin considered it well shredded.

 

The evenings were varied, and Merlin found something to appreciate in almost every one. Morgana had of course become something of an idol to the women – and a considerable amount of the youths, who watched starrily as she went about her inexpert attempts at daily tasks – and Gwen their confidant, their keystone. They liked to go out of their way every once in a while to corner Merlin into participating in, or at least watching, their activities. He found them good company, Morgana clever and sarcastic, Gwen who looked past the haze of prestige and hero-worship through which everyone else regarded their new neighbours.

 

As the summer solstice approached, everyone began setting food aside for the feast, and mending their best clothing. The young women from Camelot had assimilated into the uncomplicated social structure of Ealdor well, and Arthur had obviously noticed the fledgling romance between Gareth and Hilde, though he hadn’t actually commented.

 

He did, however, announce to Merlin one day that in Camelot he had frequently hunted before feasts, and saw no reason to rely on others here, which was very admirable and all until he told Merlin that he was expected to come along and be a general packhorse for the very large amount of stuff Arthur had brought, or someone to issue commands to, for Merlin had not ever claimed to be nor would he ever aspire to being a good hunter.

 

Arthur was apparently feeling picky, for despite Merlin’s insistence that they would be perfectly suitable, he disdained the first three does they saw, then finally decided on a hart that seemed to have a preternatural ability to sense Arthur even with all the effort he put into being stealthy – or maybe that was just Merlin, who’d already warned Arthur that he was _not_ stealthy and that his attempts to be so just made him sound more like a herd of cattle.

 

“I warned you this would happen,” Merlin said, watching the blue fade from the sky. “We should probably go back now, it’s getting dark.”

 

“Merlin,” said Arthur, “have you been paying any attention? We’re not going back.”

 

“We’re not… what?” Good God, had Arthur somehow found him out and was planning on attacking Camelot now, with just the two of them?

 

“We’re not going back until we get something good enough. Why did you think we had so much stuff?”

 

“I’ve learned not to try to figure out most of what you do, Arthur; it gives me a headache. Can’t we just snare some rabbits and go home?”

 

“Oh, we’ll get some of those as well, but not until we’re on the way back. Tomorrow, if you can control yourself and avoid scaring every creature within five miles.”

 

Patently unfair, although he found himself not minding later, when Arthur nonchalantly laid the bedroll he’d brought for himself next to Merlin’s, where Merlin had already removed his boots and sulkily installed himself. Arthur checked to make sure the fire was shored up properly.

 

“Are you pouting?” he asked.

 

“Next time,” Merlin said, definitely _not_ pouting, “I’d just like to be informed if I’m going to be away overnight, so I can at least, oh, tell my mother not to worry?”

 

“I’m pretty sure she knows, Merlin. To most people, ‘a long hunting trip’ doesn’t mean gone and back again before dinner.”

 

This was obviously going nowhere, and an ongoing argument would only make for a tense morrow.

 

“I suppose I’ll forgive you next week, then,” he said lightly, stretching on the bedroll.

 

“Next week?” Arthur asked, annoyed.

 

“Yes, although you could always try to convince me otherwise,” and Arthur looked at him sharply, so comical look of realisation on his face that Merlin had to laugh, at least until Arthur was kneeling over him, knees beside Merlin’s hips so that it was easy to splay his hands across the hard curves of Arthur’s thighs and grasp, just enough to pull him in.

 

Arthur didn’t come as Merlin had expected him to, but after a moment’s adjustment he settled easily enough between Merlin’s legs. Merlin propped himself up on his elbows, Arthur heavy but not too much so against his chest when he stretched forward and kissed him, mouth soft on his own.

 

But the angle was all wrong for getting more, so Merlin lifted one leg, pushing until Arthur obligingly rolled onto one side. Merlin followed in quick, pulling himself closer with one arm around Arthur’s waist and tilting his head so their lips could meet open and crashing. He actually felt Arthur shiver when Merlin first slid his tongue into his mouth, and heard the moan when he moved his hand to bring Arthur in by the arse. But that, he decided as he took the opportunity to slide his hand beneath Arthur"s clothes, was definitely not going to be enough.

 

Later, Arthur lay silently on his back, and every time Merlin was about to close his eyes, Arthur turned his head and looked at him, mouth open like he was about to stay something. Merlin looked back, trying to convey both his silence and his openness, but Arthur never actually said anything.

 

Merlin decided to ask a question of his own, because if Arthur wasn’t going to answer it now then he probably never was.

 

“Do you have a plan?” Did Merlin figure into it? Why would he? What did Arthur plan to do if Gareth wanted Hilde to come with him? How on earth did he plan to take on two sorcerers?

 

Arthur was silent for a long moment, and Merlin feared he wouldn’t get an answer to even his introductory query, much less the more specific issues.

 

“In a manner of speaking. I’d like nothing more, of course, than to go back tomorrow and challenge Nimueh to single combat.”

 

“Would that – would it work?”

 

“Probably not. Gaius said she isn’t known for fighting fair, not to mention the fact that he assures me there’s nothing I can do against her. He seems to know quite a lot about magic, and he tells me to wait, just a little bit longer. My father trusted him, probably more than any other man living. I trust him, too.”

 

“So do I.”

 

“He told me… Well, he hasn’t told me in so many words, but I’ve definitely picked up that he didn’t exactly approve of the ban on magic, or maybe just the way my father carried it out. Morgana didn’t, either, they would argue for days after an execution.”

 

“How many were there? Executions, I mean.”

 

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “It varied. When I was younger they happened frequently, and as often as not they were like a celebration. Now they don’t happen so often, and people are more sombre. Father would usually do something afterwards, have a feast or a tournament. Morgana thinks – well, she told me once that she thought they were meant to be a distraction for him as much as for the people.”

 

“From what?”

 

The question agitated Arthur, a bit. He squirmed, settling in a little closer, and then finally flipping over, bending one arm under his head, which he turned towards Merlin. He was still naked under the single blanket, Merlin’s own blanket; they both were. Though they weren’t quite touching, Merlin could feel the heat from his body, now that it was closer.

 

“I never knew my mother.”

 

“I know,” Merlin replied, but Arthur didn’t immediately respond or qualify his non sequitur, so he continued, “I never knew my father.”

 

“Really?” Arthur asked.

 

“Nope. Don’t know who he is. I used to ask, when I was a child, but Mother kept saying she’d tell me when I was older, and eventually I stopped.”

 

“My mother was a Cornish princess. I think I might actually have some land up there somewhere, but my father’s never liked to talk about her. Gaius told me that he blamed magic for her death, and that’s why he began the purge. He said before that there was lots of magic in Camelot, there was a court sorcerer and the Druids came often to the city.”

 

“Gaius told you all of that?”

 

Arthur murmured an assent. Merlin rolled onto his side, so he could face Arthur square on for the next, more difficult set of questions.

 

“What if… What if you had someone who knew magic, and could use it to fight Nimueh and help you get Camelot back. Would you accept their help?”

 

“Is this about William?” Arthur always called him William, had when he’d asked, formal and stilted, if several of the knights could sleep in his house, and had ever since. Merlin didn’t know whether it was some sort of grudging respect or just an acknowledgment of their lack of familiarity. “Are you asking if I’d fight with him, if he were alive?”

 

“It’s not about Will,” he said, fidgeting his fingers as an outlet for the weight of the continued deception. His right hand brushed Arthur’s thigh, and when Arthur didn’t react, he flattened it out, left it there, gentle but definite, curved around the back of one leg. “Just, imagine.”

 

Arthur did, eyes thoughtful and distant, but he, too, moved the hand on the inside of his body, bringing it in a shivering path up Merlin’s arm and leaving it over the bicep, pointer finger tapping an unfamiliar, absent rhythm.

 

“I can’t imagine a situation where I would.”

 

“Never?” Merlin asked, feeling almost mournful for his lost hopes.

 

“Well, for one thing, unless there’s something else you’re not telling me—” it took a lot of effort to keep his hand still “— I’d never trust some random interloper with the safety of everyone I have with me, and the safety of everyone in Camelot. If they betrayed me, it would probably mean the end of any hope I had left.”

 

“That’s true, but what if you knew you could trust them, somehow?”

 

“I don’t know if I think magic is right, myself. It just isn’t right for someone to be able to do that.”

 

“Why?” Merlin asked, and he hoped his voice didn’t sound as strangled as it felt.

 

“For one thing, a normal man’s got no chance against it.”

 

_Normal_. It was getting increasingly difficult to separate himself from the conversation.

 

“From what I understand, that depends on both the man and the sorcerer, but, Arthur, how many men that you face, in tournaments or even in battle, do you think have got a chance against you?”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“Why? If you’re born tall and strong, and one man is short and stunted, you’re obviously going to be able to beat him, and how is that fair?”

 

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, “are you saying I’m tall and well-formed?” He leaned in a little closer, crooking his arm a little more.

 

“Oh, shut up, you cocky prat” Merlin said, but he knew he was grinning, tense mood broken.

 

“Here’s something else,” he continued. “Some people are born able to do magic, just like you’re born tall and strong and with a natural ability to fight.”

 

“If you say so,” said Arthur, smirking.

 

Merlin pressed on. “But you, you train and you learn how to fight, how to be the best at killing people, and maybe you are. Some people have to train to do magic as well, but some people are born with it, and to tell them not to use it is… Well, it’s cruel.”

 

“But it’s dangerous.”

 

“It can be, definitely, but so could you, if you decided to start killing people for fun. You’re not prevented from learning, or from carrying a sword.”

 

“But even if I decided that and no one man could stand against me, ten together _could_, but what if there’s a sorcerer who can set everyone around him on fire, or hold them off with some sort of shield?”

 

“What if you had a magician of your own to fight them?”

 

Arthur flashed a hint of a smirk. “Clever mouth,” he said, and tugged Merlin in with the hand on his arm. “Hardly matters right now, better things to do.”

 

And while the slow dance, the gradual exposure of removing clothing was absolutely lovely, there was definitely much to be said for Arthur already there and naked, for Merlin to be able to feel Arthur’s skin soft over the curve of his hamstring before bringing it higher, flattening it out firm again Arthur’s backside, making Arthur sigh out a minute sound, rock his hips unconsciously down.

 

It was a delicious surprise for Arthur to lever himself up, sideways, and press suddenly, full bodied, into Merlin, a shock of brilliant skin and angles and muscles. Everything was instantly more intense when all he could feel was just _Arthur_, muscles shifting as he arranged himself just so, cock already blunt and hard and pushing insistently against Merlin’s stomach.

 

He wondered if maybe, after he felt this so many times he lost count, he might also lose the sudden jump of eagerness in his throat, to push and feel and give and take all at once, to rush to meet his climax but to strive to feel everything along the way. He wanted so desperately to be able to find out, but all he could hear in his head was, “something else you’re not telling me,” until Arthur rocked in hard with his hips, wrapped an arm around Merlin’s neck and kissed him hot and sucking.

 

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Merlin fully expected to get up early, eat a hurried breakfast and then set out on the prowl once more, but it was already light outside when Arthur rolled onto him, a crush of wet mouth and eager morning erection that Merlin certainly wasn’t going to question.

 

They bathed in a stream not yet warmed by summer rays, dashing in and out and warming themselves on the green grass, bare in the sun. By the time they set out in earnest, it was later in the day than Arthur had previously proclaimed the ideal time for big game.

 

Arthur’s stalking didn’t seem particularly focused; Merlin realised he was slowly moving back towards Ealdor. Once it was nearly evening, he bent suddenly and ran his hands over some invisible sign in the loam, pronouncing it favourable for the next day. He charged Merlin with setting up the fire and bedrolls again and disappeared, resurfacing from the green waves of foliage with a brace of rabbits that they cooked and ate only the choicest bits of. The day had passed quickly and they’d ranged farther than Merlin ever had, but he could hardly remember a time when he’d felt more content as night fell and Arthur wrapped one arm tight around him before he fell asleep.

 

Apparently that had been their vacation, because Arthur was up and ready to go early the next day. He quickly made good on his augury of the day before by felling an impressive young buck, antlers jutting fuzzy from his head. It promised good, tender, meat, Arthur said.

 

He likewise fulfilled his promise to snare more rabbits, and they returned expecting the town to be as they’d left it: busy and happy.

 

He should have known it was too good to last.

 

 

* * *

 

“There’s nothing more you can do?”

 

Morgana was lying in a fitful sleep, the same one she had apparently fallen into the day after they had left. At first, Merlin had thought it was just the nightmares Gaius treated her for, but Gaius had said her brain was inflamed, that she hadn’t responded to any treatment he had tried, that she had a few days at most if things continued without any improvement.

 

Gaius and Arthur were both watching Morgana, the former with the mournful cant to his face that he had carried almost constantly since they’d returned. Arthur’s face was still and sombre, a parody of the barrage of expressions Merlin had learned in the past few days. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, for every brain disorder I’ve treated and those I’ve read about. I’ve never seen anyone so unresponsive to any treatment; her fever won’t even come down.”

 

Arthur’s eyes hardened at every word, the fingers of his right hand tightening reflexively as if he were holding a sword, but this wasn’t a problem he could solve with his own physical prowess. Merlin hovered uselessly, unable to stand as close as he wanted to Arthur or even to try healing Morgana; Gaius had forbidden it, not wanting to damage her brain further.

 

“Sire?”

 

Arthur turned his whole body, physically separating himself from his vigil. “Yes, Gwen?”

 

“There’s a man here – he came yesterday – who says he can cure Morgana.”

 

“Sire, the man hasn’t even _seen_ her, I don’t understand how he came to know she is ill, much less how to cure her,” Gaius interjected.

 

“Did you ask him that?”

 

“He said, sire, that he has a cure for all ills.”

 

“A cure for… Is that possible?”

 

“I don’t presume to know everything, but I cannot imagine such a thing.”

 

“But you say you are out of ideas.”

 

“Some treatments take time, of course, but I have nothing new.”

 

“Very well,” Arthur said. “Gwen, summon this man. Gaius, I trust you won’t think this an aspersion on your skills, which I of course esteem highly, but if there’s even a chance, I’m taking it.”

 

Gaius’ face was unhappy, but he offered no objection.

 

The traveller, when he appeared, was unimpressive save the massive, whorling burn scar on one side of his face. Otherwise he exhibited a strange sort of snidely obsequious manner, fawning and looking down, but his eyes as they peered from under his brows were condescending.

 

He demanded to be left alone with the lady, which they grudgingly obliged. Arthur paced in circles around Hilde’s tiny home until he heard Morgana gasp from within, and he burst in to see her looking confused, but definitely recovered. The scarred man –Edwin, he called himself -- stood smug in the corner. Gaius pronounced her in remarkable recovery, and Arthur’s shoulder relaxed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

 

“I must thank you,” Arthur said to Edwin, who gave only a twisted smile.

 

“You are from Camelot, my lord?”

 

“What’s that?” Arthur demanded.

 

“It’s only the symbol on your belt, I saw it in Camelot.”

 

Arthur indeed had a dragon worked in enamel on the buckle. “Yes,” he said, voice lighter. “I have lived there before, but not in a long time. My father was once a knight; this was his. When were you there?”

 

“Oh, it must have been last fall, just as the leaves changed. I remember buying Turkish saffron and peppers in the market that were the same colour as the leaves. The stall was right under a turret, that’s how I remember the dragon.”

 

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, “the leaves always did get quite beautiful.” He straightened, clapped Edwin on the shoulder. “I must confess, though, that I’ve just returned from a hunting trip and I am in need of fresh clothes. I shot a deer for the solstice feast, which can now proceed without blight -- thanks to you, so of course you must join us.”

 

Edwin inclined his head in assent.

 

“Excellent. Merlin, Gaius, come on. Gwen, help Morgana with whatever she needs to prepare, everyone will want to see her, at least briefly.” He gave the physician so wide and false a smile that Merlin immediately realised he didn’t trust him, but what could have happened in so short a time?

 

Arthur led them back to Merlin’s house, where he drew them both into the far corner from the road.

 

“Gaius,” he whispered, “you called Morgana’s recovery remarkable.”

 

“Indeed, sire.”

 

“What about magical?”

 

Gaius sucked in a breath. “What do you know?”

 

“I know the spice vendor that man is talking about, but she never has Turkish goods in the fall, they come in late spring and are gone by midsummer. No, he was either mistaken about when he was there – unlikely, considering the detail he went to – or he was lying and was there recently. Very recently.”

 

“That is a strange thing to lie about,” Gaius said, eyes sharp, “and he worked very hard to make us believe it.”

 

“I agree.”

 

“But why magic?” Merlin asked.

 

“Her illness and recovery both were quite unnaturally sudden,” observed Gaius.

 

“This might be a coincidence, but I cannot ignore it. When we were in Gereburg, the men we heard talked about escorting a scarred man to Camelot with Nimueh. A man with very unsettling facial scars.”

 

“That is something,” said Gaius thoughtfully. “I had wondered why, if he _did_ have a cure for all ills, he would be lurking around _here_.”

 

“Well, why would he be here? What’s his purpose in coming here and using magic?” Merlin asked.

 

“I believe it is personal,” said Gaius. “If he truly is in league with Nimueh, that is evidence enough, but I think it goes further. There was a couple, husband and wife, who were killed for practising dark magic. They had a son whose name, I believe, was Edwin.”

 

“And you think this is the same Edwin?” asked Arthur.

 

“He would be about the same age.”

 

“Could he have done something to Morgana under the guise of healing her?”

 

“It is of course possible, sire, but if we believe he sickened her in the first place, I do not see why he would turn around and heal her.”

 

“What if he didn’t, though? Sicken her in the first place.”

 

Gaius sighed. “We can’t be sure unless he tells us, some spells do not immediately manifest.”

 

“So we need to ask him,” Arthur decided. “Make him tell us.”

 

“How are you going to do that?” Gaius asked, while Merlin’s mind whirled through possibilities, planning how to separate Edwin, how to make him talk, how to tell if he was lying.

 

“I’ll do it,” said Arthur, and took his leave, but not before reminding Merlin: “Now you see what I mean about magic, Merlin; I don’t want anyone in my service who is just a few steps away from poisoning innocent people for revenge.”

 

If Merlin had been watching all of this from the outside, he might have found it funny how the entire world seemed to be conspiring to prevent him from being able to convince Arthur to accept magic.

 

 

* * *

 

Merlin was telling his mother about the time he had managed to physically stumble into Arthur at the exact moment he was lining up a shot, Gwen laughing on her other side, when he noticed. Arthur, who had conspicuously occupied one end of the table, regaling a rotating cast with tales about The City, had vanished. He looked to the other end, unsurprised when he couldn’t find Edwin, either. He tried to catch Gaius’ attention, but the man wouldn’t look at him, and he didn’t want to cause a scene.

 

“Mum, I’ll be right back,” he said quickly, and ran to the middle of the village, where he could barely hear the raucous festival-goers. He pivoted to the left, to the right, but still saw no sign of Edwin and Arthur.

 

Only… _There_, and he couldn’t tell how he knew, but he did, and he ran again, until he could see, in the fading summer light, a strange timorous flicker that didn’t belong.

 

He went as quickly and quietly as he could, the pounding of his blood in his ears the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

 

“… Watch them die!” he heard, Edwin’s quiet voice now agitated and hoarse, “and I tried, you know, I tried to stop it, and now I get to remember it every time I look in the mirror. Uther Pendragon… I vowed then I’d make him pay, and she gave me a chance. But then I thought, why stop with Uther himself? I should kill his family as well, just like he did mine, so she showed me where you are.”

 

He came into view, and Merlin couldn’t see his face, but his arms were waving wildly, and with each jerky movement the fire that roared in a circle around Arthur licked higher.

 

Arthur himself looked calm, so calm that for a moment Merlin actually thought he had a plan, until he noticed the way Arthur’s eyes were flicking from place to place around the flames, looking for an opening. That decided it.

 

“Edwin,” he said, and stepped into the area lit by the fire’s glow. The sorcerer was so startled that his hand slackened, and the flames dipped low, but he yelled and opened his hand so wide his fingers arched away from his palms, and they roared higher than ever, bending in as if drawn to the Prince.

 

“Come to watch?” he asked, and extended the other hand, whispering something that drew Arthur’s sword from its sheath and sent it spinning through the air.

 

“A pretty weapon,” Edwin said. “I’d considered using it on you, Prince Arthur, just for some poetic justice, but then I decided this would be much, much better. I suppose I can use it for your friend here instead.”

 

“Merlin, run!” Arthur yelled.

 

“No,” said Merlin, stepping closer, “I’m not going to watch, and I’m not going to run, either. I’m going to stop you, and later I’m going to stop her, too.”

 

Edwin laughed. “Good luck with that, boy. She could strike you dead before you got close enough to aim a bow, but you’ll never get the chance, anyway.”

 

Arthur yelled and made as if to jump from the circle, implacable walls of flame and all. Edwin dropped the flames, which vanished into a single point like they had been doused, and spread his hand out, perpendicular to his arm. Arthur abruptly stopped, and Edwin smiled. He whispered again, low and hissing, and the sword moved, a slow inexorable arc towards Merlin’s head.

 

“I could keep it this speed, Prince,” he said, “sever the boy’s head inch by inch, and I will if you keep struggling. Stop moving, and I’ll at least do it quickly.” Arthur blanched, noticeable even in the last vestiges of daylight, and stopped.

 

But Merlin didn’t stop. He looked at Arthur, whose eyes were wide right back at him.

 

“I hope… Please don’t think any differently of me. After this,” he said, and looked at the sword, felt the magic speed golden through his blood, saw Edwin’s face open in shock right before the sharp edge cut right through him, heard the two dull, wet thumps as his body and head landed separately. Arthur was on his knees, and the expression on his face was so much worse than Edwin’s that Merlin’s heart dropped to his stomach.

 

“Arthur, I’m sor—”

 

Everything went black.

 

 

* * *

 

Arthur only looked in on Merlin once, when he knew everyone was gone: Hunith to do some washing; Gwen and Morgana gone to collect flowers; and Gaius checking the stitches on Pellinore’s brow. Arthur himself had delivered the blow, last night after Pellinore had split open Merlin’s scalp with a tree branch and Arthur had yelled and thrown himself on him, landing one solid blow before he caught up to himself.

 

Merlin’s hair was still crusted with blood, blue bruising crept over one temple and cheekbone, and he didn’t move, not when Arthur came in, not when he deliberately shuffled his feet noisily across the floor, not when Arthur squeezed his forearm and lied and said Merlin was his least favourite person in the world, and not when Arthur stalked out again, through the back in case someone was returning.

 

Gaius had informed him, unasked, that the trauma was unlikely to cause any permanent damage – if only it could have knocked the magic out, Arthur wished – and that Merlin just needed to sleep it off and heal gradually. How gradually, he couldn’t know – it could be days, or it could be weeks, he said. The physician was obviously worried, drained, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to utter any words of support.

 

He redoubled the patrols around the village, in which, of course, not a single person remained unaware of Edwin’s deeds, his death or Merlin’s part in it. If the patrol had caught Edwin before he’d infiltrated the town, Morgana would never have been victimised and Merlin would never have exposed himself – ever, if Arthur had his way.

 

It made much more sense to think of Merlin as the keystone to all the loose pieces from the Kanen battle, for all that Arthur wished he could have just gone on believing it had been William. Instead, he had Merlin, who by all of Arthur’s education was evil, uncontrollable, fickle, but who had stood fast by Arthur through his sudden violent intrusion and all the difficult things since, including the death of his oldest friend, who’d been nothing but loyal.

 

Of course, Merlin had also lied about it, but it was hard to maintain the initial flash of anger and betrayal when Merlin was still in his mother’s bed, and when Arthur could think back to practically every conversation they’d ever had and remember some sort of line disparaging magic or magicians coming out of his mouth. He wondered if Merlin had ever been about to tell him, perhaps before he related some unsubstantiated tale about a magic user going mad and killing people while he slept, or perhaps when he called magic a corrupting stain, blackening any land that tolerated it. It also didn’t help that he could think of nights when Merlin gasped below him or laughed above him or curled up thin and warm next to him. He was a small, shameful bit glad, though, that Merlin hadn’t told him before, had given them all of that time.

 

That evening, after he’d checked in on Morgana, who was starting to resent being coddled, he found Gaius waiting for him. They had only discussed the details of Edwin Muirden once, before Arthur had been faced with just how out of his league these sorcerers were.

 

“Gaius,” he acknowledged.

 

“Good evening, Sire.”

 

“Did you need something?” he asked, because the last thing he needed was for people to think he was sitting around waiting for updates on his paramour, or some such ridiculousness.

 

“If your majesty will permit me to be frank, I believe there’s something I should inform you of, now, while there are no… distractions.”

 

“Very well,” he said, gesturing for the physician to continue.

 

“It would be best if we were somewhere absolutely private.”

 

They went to William’s house, in which Arthur wasn’t particularly comfortable; it reminded him of a boy who was now dead because he’d intercepted a crossbow bolt intended for Arthur, of Merlin sitting blank and devastated on the ground, of how Arthur had only hurt him worse then, and of how now they’d both hurt each other. However, Gaius obviously had something of import to say, so he sat.

 

“I did not,” Gaius began, “tell you everything I could have when I described to you Camelot before your birth, and I wasn’t going to, because it’s not exactly my place to tell you, but unfortunately there’s no longer anyone living whose opinion on the matter is important, and I think it will help bring some of the matter at hand into perspective.”

 

He couldn’t imagine what that would mean other than Merlin. “Go on.”

 

“Your mother, whom your father loved immeasurably, and who was one of the best women I’ve ever known, had been unable to conceive for several years. She and your father were desperate, and they asked me to help. I studied everything I could, but I could learn no spell to help.”

 

“You?” Arthur asked, dismayed. Was everyone he trusted to be a sorcerer? And how could his father tolerate such a thing?

 

“Yes. In those days I was a sorcerer, but of small ability, and I focused on the healing arts. When your father banned magic, I swore an oath to never practice magic again. I have not broken that oath to this day.”

 

“And my father knew?”

 

“Oh yes, he knew many magicians in that day.”

 

This was something Arthur couldn’t focus on, now, and he imagined it wasn’t the crux of what Gaius wanted to tell him, but he had one more question.

 

“You say you learned magic, what does that mean?”

 

“Magic is a tricky, uneven thing, Sire. Some people can learn a wide variety of spells and use them as well as they can walk, some can only learn certain subsets, and some people want more than anything to use magic but they can never master a single spell. There is no small dependence on natural ability, but you must still work to learn each spell you want to use.”

 

Arthur frowned. “Merlin spoke, once, of people who are born able to use magic,” and he hoped his face didn’t flush too red at the memory of other things Merlin had said that night, later on.

 

“Merlin is the only exception to that rule that I’ve encountered. He is, as far as I’ve ever heard, the only such sorcerer ever to have lived.” Trust Merlin to change everything.

 

“So you knew, then, about him?”

 

“Yes, sire,” Gaius said, and sighed, but he didn’t look apologetic and he didn’t say anything more about it. “Shall I continue?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“After I was unable to assist, your father asked me to recommend others. There was only one person who gave them hope, and I wonder to this day what she knew, what she planned. There’s a lot I don’t know, so I’ll save you from my conjecture and just state the facts as I know them: Nimueh’s magic traded your mother’s life for yours, and she didn’t tell your father beforehand. She says she didn’t know, and I’ve never been able to decide whether I believe her or not. He blamed her for it and condemned her to death as a traitor. She survived, obviously, and Uther outlawed all magic. Many people didn’t take it seriously, or thought they could hide their use of magic, and were killed. Practitioners of dark magic, in particular, were shown no mercy. Your father also killed all the magical beasts he could find, save one.”

 

Arthur ignored the beasts, he ignored everything he’d heard after one key sentence. “Nimueh?”

 

“Exactly. She and your father never got along. They disagreed fundamentally on many issues, but she was the only one with the ability to give your parents a child, so Uther set aside their differences and promised her a large reward.”

 

“And then… My mother died? Because of me?” He’d always known his mother had died in childbirth, from before he understood the actual concept of death. It was evident in the way he had no real memories of Uther before he was old enough to hold a sword, how his father had never looked at him for too long.

 

“Absolutely not,” Gaius said firmly. “Your mother’s death was an unfortunate consequence of people meddling with things they didn’t understand. The moments she had with you were the happiest I’ve ever seen anyone, Arthur. She would have been even more proud of you than your father was.”

 

Perhaps Arthur had two fathers, then, because surely Gaius wasn’t speaking of Uther Pendragon, but if Gaius was being honest there were other things to bring up, and he didn’t want to dwell on this topic with the physician any longer, anyway.

 

“Edwin told me his parents were burnt at the stake.”

 

Gaius nodded heavily. “That was the method of execution for some. I remember the Muirdens, they started out innocent enough, but after the ban on magic they changed, fell into dark magic and were soon caught. I couldn’t bring myself to admit the existence of their son and possibly risk his being hunted down, as well; he was not yet ten.”

 

“I would not want Camelot to be a land that executes children who might possibly grow up to be evil, anyway,” said Arthur.

 

“Your mother would have shared your conviction in that,” Gaius said, eyes far away in remembrance, and Arthur wished he could share every memory Gaius had of Igraine.

 

Superficially, Edwin Muirden had in some ways done more damage than he’d hoped, but Arthur vowed not to fall victim to his machinations -- even the unintentional ones -- any longer. What that meant regarding Merlin, though, he had no idea.

 

 

* * *

 

Morgana didn’t say anything when he knocked on the door to Hilde’s and then sat, without explanation or introduction, watching silently as Gwen mended someone’s dress and Morgana looked over her shoulder, apparently trying to learn. She did, though, look at his hands, where the skin was still red and the blisters wrapped by Gaius. He folded them behind his back.

 

“No one knows what to think,” Morgana said, pointedly not looking at him.

 

“About what?” he asked, because he might as well take part, since she was obviously going to have the conversation anyway.

 

“Merlin, of course, and Pellinore, and you. Pellinore’s quiet now, but he already told someone that he thought it was Merlin who was attacking you, with magic no less, and now everyone knows.”

 

Arthur hadn’t known, but he supposed it would have made sense, if Pellinore had blundered along into them right as Merlin beheaded Edwin, and missed the parts Merlin had interrupted, the fire and the rants of revenge.

 

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, “and I can’t believe that anyone who’s known Merlin his whole life would believe it.”

 

“They don’t, exactly, but all they know is that’s what Pellinore said he saw, and no one’s refuted it yet.”

 

“Edwin Muirden,” he said, drawing out the name to give himself time to arrange his thoughts, decide how much to tell her, “was a sorcerer. I think he had plans to burn me alive, but Merlin killed him first. Pellinore came upon us just in time to see the latter, made a judgment and acted on it, which is no less than I ask of my knights. I don’t blame him for the misunderstanding, and I’m sure Merlin won’t either, when he wakes up.”

 

Morgana opened her mouth. There were obviously gaping holes in what he’d shared, but he wasn’t giving her any more, not yet. “Tell everyone that,” he said, and walked out without properly taking his leave, but he was hardly going to choose now to stand on ceremony.

 

 

* * *

 

He found Pellinore, apologised for the head wound, and offered him basically the same explanation he’d given Morgana. He could see the questions in Pellinore’s eyes, but he obviously wasn’t going to ask them, which was good because Arthur probably would not answer. He did, however, respond well to Arthur’s praise for his quick response, and was visibly glad that Arthur wasn’t holding some sort of grudge.

 

This concern of Pellinore begged the question: on what grounds, exactly, had the knight thought Arthur would be holding a grudge? Just because he’d told them that Merlin had saved his life, or had they all noticed the way Arthur was purposely hiding his desire to answer Merlin’s wide smiles with his own, or how he found himself analysing the geometry of Merlin’s face, his ridiculous ears, a little too often?

 

The truth of the matter was that Arthur had never needed to hide his feelings about anyone before. He respected his father, he was proud of his knights, he was endlessly frustrated by Morgana. He generally considered himself to have his feelings under control.

 

Merlin threw all of this out of kilter. He obviously found it impossible to avoid conveying everything he was thinking on his face, frustration and amusement and concern and other things that Arthur wasn’t sure he understood. In turn, Arthur found all of these rising in himself, in response to all of Merlin’s ridiculous and brave and stupid and amazing actions, in response to Merlin’s face, his voice.

 

Of course, this stood to emphasise the efforts Merlin had gone to in order to hide his magic, at which he’d been completely successful until he’d thrown it all away to save Arthur’s life. And Arthur didn’t know what to with it, with Merlin’s power that could effortlessly defeat a man who’d been studying and waiting to attack Arthur for nearly two decades, Merlin’s power that Gaius said shouldn’t even exist.

 

After he’d hidden in a fallow field through midday meal, he found Gaius again. If he was going to slag through all these complications and mysteries – and the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t imagine doing anything else – instead of the simpler path, to forget about Merlin and magic, he had one last niggling doubt.

 

“The, uh, magic, would that explain, you know… Merlin?” Really, that had sounded better in his head, but his initial plan of just confronting the issue had fallen apart as soon as Gaius had given him one expectant look.

 

Gaius laughed. “A confusing boy indeed, but I doubt the magic has more than a small place in all that.”

 

“No, I mean… Me, and -- and Merlin.”

 

“Has Merlin done something?” And as much as he was working that eyebrow, Arthur could tell Gaius’ rueful tone held more fatherly affection than disapproval.

 

“No, I just mean, would that have somehow, I don’t know… left me, uh, _drawn_ to magic?”

 

There was a moment in which Gaius, paused, and his face slowly changed. “You’re not like some kind of selkie, Arthur, you’re a person the same as Sir Gareth or Morgana – or Merlin, for that matter – and you came from your mother and father, as a result of sexual congress the same as anyone else.”

 

Arthur would probably have traded all the reassurances of this conversation to have never heard Gaius utter that phrase.

 

“I’m sure I don’t know exactly what you’re implying,” Gaius continued, “and really, I don’t want to, but you shouldn’t worry that Merlin’s magic is in any way controlling you, intentionally or no. It’s basically not possible to control someone like that, not without having it immediately obvious that they’re under some sort of influence.”

 

“So Merlin’s magic, it follows the same rules as other magic?”

 

“It is different in some ways, but it seems to, like how he can only slow time, not stop it altogether.”

 

“He can… What?”

 

“Oh,” said Gaius, “Of course you didn’t know that. If you have any questions about Merlin’s abilities, you should ask him yourself, I’m sure Hunith would let you see him.”

 

“He’s awake?” Arthur asked eagerly, then coughed, totally nonchalant.

 

“Well, I heard Hunith doing a good deal of shouting about thinking and not jumping headlong into danger, and I can’t imagine any other target. Unless she was just practising, in which case it might be better for someone else to be there when he wakes up, anyway.”

 

 

* * *

 

Not only was Merlin awake, but Arthur had to walk straight through his house to find him, perched on the fence around back, eyes closed to sunlight that flashed in his hair -- except where it was dulled by dried blood.

 

He started when he heard Arthur’s feet in the grass, turned with a guilty expression that changed when he saw Arthur, but not necessarily for the better.

 

“Oh, I thought you were my mother,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse until he coughed to clear his throat. “Come to tell me off for getting out of bed.”

 

“Perhaps she has a point,” Arthur said, leaning, deliberately casual, on a crossbar a little bit away from Merlin.

 

“I’m fine, just like I told her,” Merlin protested. Arthur vaulted easily over the fence so they were face to face, reaching with his fingertips to tilt Merlin’s head so he could rifle his other hand through Merlin’s hair and see the stitches.

 

“I think she thought you were dead, at first,” he said, and Merlin arched his eyebrows.

 

“That bad, really?”

 

“Really,” Arthur confirmed. “And trust you to bleed more than the man you beheaded, just from Pellinore giving you a little smack on the head.”

 

Merlin paled. “Is that what happened? Mum won’t tell me.”

 

“It is. I’m not actually sure she knows, you just got carried in here unconscious and dripping red off the ends of your hair, which explains this general porcupine look you’ve got going for you. It doesn’t really work, by the way. And -- don’t!” he interjected, as Merlin lifted a self-conscious hand to scrub at his head, wincing immediately when he hit the stitches. “You can’t just – you’re going to have to wash it out, you great idiot. Do you have a pot? We’ll need to heat the water.”

 

Merlin followed him in and directed him to the largest cooking pot, which Arthur filled with water and set to heat. He stripped the bandages from his hands; fresh air sped healing, anyway.

 

“Where’s Hunith?”

 

“I think she’s gone to try to wash the blood out of her pillows,” Merlin said, standing uncertain off to the side. His feet were bare and left tiny imprints in the grass. “Why did Pellinore hit me with a stick?”

 

“Well,” Arthur admitted, “truthfully it was less of a stick and more of an enormous branch, but you know I don’t train them to do things halfway. I think that he arrived right in time to see Edwin on the ground without his head, your hand out and me looking – well, however it was I looked, I’m sure it wasn’t nice, and decided you were the threat.”

 

“Me?” Merlin yelped, and then grabbed his head. “Ow.”

 

“Yes, impressive head injury there, you keep forgetting,” said Arthur. There was definitely no reason to tell Merlin about how Arthur had leapt on Pellinore like a mother bear, so he didn’t. Maybe, if Arthur were lucky, he’d never find out.

 

“I, um, well… Did you—” Merlin stuttered impressively, but fortunately the water was boiling, so Arthur cut him off.

 

“Outside,” he ordered, “and take off your tunic.”

 

“What? But I—” Merlin protested, voice indignant, so Arthur got to interrupt him again, and really, why would he stay mad when he could be doing this instead?

 

“Do you want to spill bloody water all over your mother’s floor?” he asked, and Merlin immediately complied, standing in the grass with his brown-crusted shirt balled in both hands, held defensively in front of him. Arthur scooped some of the steaming water up with a smaller vessel, and went outside. He pulled Merlin’s shoulder until he bent forward, and Arthur upended it over the cut. Merlin hissed, but Arthur kept going, working his hand through Merlin’s hair and carefully avoiding the stitches. Merlin made an appreciative noise and the water started running dark, but his cup was soon emptied.

 

He went back in to get more, but decided it would be much easier to take the whole pot of water outside.

 

The handles were of course too hot to grasp, and casting about the kitchen for something to use proved fruitless, so he stripped off his own tunic and quickly padded his hands with it.

 

When he set it down, he looked up to find Merlin watching, all intense gaze and slightly parted lips, which he closed immediately when he noticed Arthur’s attention, looking away and blushing.

 

“Something wrong?” Arthur asked innocently. Merlin looked back over, grinned at him, impish, and Arthur was glad they could still do this, without all the discussion he knew would be coming soon.

 

“You’re so domestic, Arthur,” Merlin teased. “My mother’s going to want to keep you.”

 

“I suppose she can come with us,” he replied, and realised what that implied when Merlin’s face slackened into an o of surprise. There was no graceful way to qualify that, so he just pushed on, realising that perhaps, if he made clear his own feelings on the matter, Merlin would, as well.

 

“Unless you’re not coming back to Camelot?” he asked, all false levity, and motioned for Merlin to bend forward again. “You’re going to get rid of one sorcerer and leave us to deal with the worse on our own?” He finished quickly with the water so close, and Merlin shivered when he ran his thumb around the inside of his ear, where blood had caked thick. Once the water started dripping clean into the dirt, he upended the rest of it without warning over Merlin’s head, giving the undamaged side of his head a quick run through with his fingers just because he wanted to.

 

“Arthur!” Merlin spluttered, straightening quickly, but he didn’t say anything else, and so, along with the discovery that Merlin was in fact a little taller than he was, he realised that maybe Merlin actually _wasn’t_ going to come, which, really, wasn’t a conversation he actually needed to hear. The implication was sufficient.

 

Merlin grabbed his wrist, both their hands wet. “Arthur, we have to talk about this. I have no idea what you think happened, and…”

 

“Merlin, I know exactly what happened, I’m not _stupid_.”

 

“I know, it’s just -- you know? Then aren’t you—”

 

They were intent on each other, but they both swivelled their heads abruptly when they heard Hunith’s voice calling through the house. They hadn’t noticed soon enough, though, because when she appeared outside, scolding Merlin for moving around too much, they were still in the same tableau: Merlin’s fingers spread across Arthur’s wrist, both of them bare-chested and Merlin still dripping water from his hair, her cooking pot forgotten on the wet ground. He could only hope they now had matching guilty expressions to complete it, but he didn’t dare look at Merlin to find out.

 

Silence reigned for a few seconds, before he let manners kick in.

 

“Hunith,” he greeted, bowing a little. He scooped his clothing off the ground, pulling his wrist out of Merlin’s grasp so he could put it on quickly.

 

“Mother,” Merlin whined, “there was blood in my _ear_.”

 

Her face washed over in pain. “I know, Merlin,” she said, in the fondest voice Arthur had ever heard. He watched them smile at each other and felt guilty to have caused that brief sorrowful look.

 

He stepped forward formally. “Hunith, I apologise for giving you cause to worry. It was entirely my fault.”

 

She looked at him gently, but it was Merlin who rolled his eyes and said, “That’s for sure. If only you hadn’t tried to burn yourself to death then none of this would have happened.”

 

“Hush, Merlin,” she scolded. “Arthur, you’ve absolutely nothing to be sorry for, I’m quite familiar with the way Merlin has little regard for his own safety.”

 

“Both of you need to stop worrying so much,” Merlin said, and crossed his arms over his skinny, still-bare chest, which Arthur definitely didn’t follow down to his hip bones, sharp over the waistband of his pants.

 

“Maybe once you’ve slept off that gash,” she said, “now come on, back to bed with you.”

 

“In a little bit, Mother, I can’t now,” and apparently she accepted that, for with one last look she went back inside. Arthur and Merlin stared at each other.

 

“You should put something on,” Arthur decided. “And not… that one.”

 

“…Right,” Merlin agreed, eyeing the rusty-streaked cloth ruefully. He scooped the pot off the ground, as well, and quickly reappeared wearing a blue tunic. His hair was still a tufty, damp disaster, which Arthur certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

 

“So…” he said. “I’m magic.”

 

“I noticed,” Arthur replied. “Eventually.” He looked towards the windows of the house. While he liked Hunith – quite a lot, actually – that didn’t mean he wanted her hearing all of this. Merlin followed his gaze and made an understanding grimace. He started walking, and Arthur followed him thought the trees until Merlin stopped in a small clearing, which he was evidently familiar with because he crossed immediately to an old stump and sat on it. Arthur debated, then finally went and sat next to him, pushing with his hip until Merlin gave him more room.

 

“I talked to Gaius,” he said, because so far Merlin’s attempts at starting this conversation had been less than stellar.

 

“Did he tell you about the dragon?” Merlin asked.

 

“No -- what?” Definitely not a direction he had predicted, which seemed to be a theme today, or perhaps just when the conversation was about Merlin.

 

“Gaius told me there’s a great bloody dragon under the castle, and that it says it’s my destiny to help you become king.” He laughed. “Obviously, he’s already been proven right.”

 

“That’s ridiculous,” said Arthur flatly.

 

“You’ve already said you need my help to defeat Nimueh,” Merlin said. “Besides, he didn’t just mean king of Camelot, he said king of all of Albion. High King.”

 

“Well, now it’s definitely ridiculous.”

 

Merlin shook his head emphatically. “Arthur, you’re already a better king to Ealdor than Cendred ever was, and I’m sure most of the rest of the lot are not better. Why have all these bad kings fighting each other and killing thousands of people, when everything can be united and peaceful?”

 

“One thing at a time, Merlin,” Arthur said, because he really couldn’t have Merlin talking him into it. “Gaius told me you were born with magic.” Merlin nodded. “He told me you’re the only one like that.”

 

Merlin shrugged. “It’s possible.”

 

What could Merlin do? A lot of things, apparently. He started by manipulating the branches on a tree, which he said he’d done for Gaius as well. He lifted the dead leaves from the ground and sent them into a rustling whirlwind, then made them fly in formation like birds and then straight into the sky in a long column. He took the lace out of Arthur’s tunic and made it dance, and then he put it back and stopped, looking at him expectantly, said that he could go on. Arthur swallowed, hard.

 

“Is that all?”

 

“Of course not,” Merlin said disdainfully.

 

What _couldn’t_ Merlin do? Stop time, as Gaius had said. He couldn’t think of anything else. Could he pick Arthur up?

 

It turned out he could, and Arthur didn’t regret asking even when he dared Merlin to turn him upside down, and Merlin did, eyes shining golden in concentration, even when he told Merlin to put him down, and Merlin told him to say please.

 

He didn’t say please. He waited until Merlin was close enough, then grabbed him by the collar, pulled him in and kissed him hard, awkward angle and blood rushing to his head, until Merlin opened his mouth and moaned loudly, and then Arthur was on the ground with Merlin crawling over him.

 

“We’re not done yet,” Merlin whispered, and moved until he was sitting on his heels over Arthur’s waist.

 

“All right,” Arthur agreed, but he hooked his fingers into Merlin’s trousers, under his tunic, just to be contrary.

 

“What else do you want to know?” Merlin asked.

 

How had he used his magic? Lots of ways, which he rattled off until Arthur interrupted, specifying: how had he used it against people? Merlin confessed to all three times without hesitation: Edwin, the raider in the village, and now if he was going to be thorough.

 

What were his plans for the future? To protect Arthur, again without hesitation. Arthur tightened his grip until Merlin squirmed on top of him.

 

Why hadn’t he just told the truth? Merlin sighed and frowned at that, mentioned a few conversations that Arthur could remember as well, in particular the time right after William had died.

 

Wasn’t Arthur angry? Oh, he had been, but it hadn’t lasted long; he couldn’t really summon it up when he remembered watching Merlin fall like a doll and bleed until it spread beyond his field of vision in the dim light.

 

Okay, but what did Arthur think? Arthur had been surprised, but then again he’d always known there’d been _something_ about Merlin, and maybe it was the magic. Or maybe not.

 

Merlin watched him for a long moment, looked straight into Arthur’s eyes, and Arthur remembered seeing them glow like fire, when he’d killed another magician, someone who logically should be Merlin’s ally against Arthur’s family, when he’d made the trees dance and when he’d flipped Arthur like a top, so careful that he’d never felt worried at all.

 

He tensed, manoeuvred until, with the help of Merlin’s knees leveraged against the ground, he could work them both to ground, lying side by side. He cupped his hands around Merlin’s head, around his fragile, stubborn, impetuous skull, and kissed him.

 

Merlin hummed, smiling against his lips, and worked his long legs until one was wrapped up over Arthur’s hip, the other between his legs. He squirmed closer in under Arthur arms, putting one hand up under the hem of his tunic and brushing just the fingertips of the other under Arthur’s jaw, so their pressure waxed and waned as he opened his mouth and changed the angle of his head, brushing his tongue over Merlin’s lips until they opened.

 

Then Merlin was wiggling even closer, moaning, so Arthur risked leaving the protection of Merlin’s head to just one hand, and ran the other one down Merlin’s back, hard, pulling him in closer by the backside and moving his lips, letting out all the tension and frustration and hurt and unhappy revelation of the last two days. Merlin’s hands moved, logically, down to the laces of his trousers, and Arthur grunted in agreement with this plan before he remembered that probably, this wasn’t the best for Merlin’s gaping head wound.

 

“Stop,” he gasped, “stop, stop,” and Merlin stopped so quickly it almost seemed like he’d moved backwards. He put his arms on the ground and pushed himself back, away, face pale, and Arthur realised.

 

“No, no no no,” he corrected, followed Merlin up and pushed him back down to the ground, putting one hand under his head again. Merlin frowned up at him. “I’m just… not sure… this is safe. For your head.”

 

Merlin put one hand back, sliding his fingers down Arthur’s forearm to his wrist. “My head’s just fine,” he said, brow still wrinkled unhappily.

 

“I’m not sure I trust you to self-assess,” Arthur told him, but he relented almost immediately. “Just… don’t move.”

 

“How am I going to not move?” Merlin asked, but Arthur just pushed him flat with a palm on his chest, and withdrew the hand from Merlin’s hand, using both to work Merlin’s tunic up to his chest, where the fabric bunched under his arms.

 

“You told me not to move,” Merlin said.

 

“This is fine,” Arthur told him, and moved down to lick a line up the soft hollow of Merlin’s stomach, using one hand to slide under the rumpled fabric and brush roughly over Merlin’s nipples. Merlin gasped, pushed his hips up, and Arthur could feel him hard against his chest.

 

“Told you… No… Moving,” he said, voice muffled as he sucked open-mouthed kisses down and across Merlin’s hips, licking the jutting bones. Merlin’s left leg jerked, and Arthur grabbed it firmly in admonishment.

 

“I can’t help it!” Merlin said. Arthur licked again, biting lightly all around the rounded bone, and felt the muscles jerk under his palm.

 

“Interesting,” he said, and Merlin’s leg twitched again.

 

Well, he couldn’t have Merlin ripping open his stitches with involuntary convulsions of ecstasy, so he’d have to save that for another night. He moved lower, pulling Merlin’s trousers down with one hand and opening his mouth over the newly exposed skin. He slid both hands down Merlin’s flanks to pull the fabric down Merlin’s thighs, leaving his legs immobilised. Arthur moved to put his legs on either side of Merlin’s, effectively trapping them, and bent down over the head of his cock.

 

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin moaned, eyes burning straight into Arthur’s face, and so, keeping their eyes locked, he licked from the base to the tip, flicking his tongue under the head once.

 

Merlin cursed, loud, arching up and pushing his head into the ground. Arthur raised his head.

 

“Merlin,” he said firmly, “the whole point of this exercise is for you to not damage your head. If something happens, not only will I immediately stop and absolutely refuse to continue, but also your mother will never, ever forgive me. Got it?”

 

Merlin glared at him. “Then bloody well hurry up, you damn tease!”

 

“Mmm,” said Arthur, noncommittal, and sucked Merlin’s balls into his mouth, rubbing his thumb over the wet mess on the head of his cock. He hummed a bit, glad, when Merlin didn’t put his head into any more danger, and felt the long muscle in Merlin’s thigh jump.

 

When he sucked the tip into his mouth, then wrapped one steadying hand around the base and worked his mouth all the way down, Merlin came in a strangled crescendo of moans, Arthur realised his own crotch was already soiled and wet, and hoped no one was going to be paying him close attention on the walk back to his room.

 

 

* * *

 

King Bayard of Mercia, a nation that had always counted Camelot among its enemies, sent out messengers looking for Arthur. It seemed the few of Kanen’s men who had gotten away were not loath to spread rumours about Arthur’s general direction, at least for the right amount of money.

 

Jonah the baker intercepted one on his way back from buying more yeast in Holtham, and brought it immediately to Arthur, who was mock fighting with Gawain to build up his endurance after the long convalescence to let his broken rib heal.

 

Jonah carried a missive of peace, surprisingly enough, in which Bayard claimed he’d rather ally with the son of Uther Pendragon than a treacherous band of sorcerers with no respect for kings or laws. The message included information on where to send a response, an innocuous sounding inn in Holtham.

 

Arthur gave himself half a day to consider his answer, debating whether he could trust Bayard or not while he watched Merlin stand in the middle of the chicken yard and send the laundry up to dry. Sometimes he liked to show off and maintain several chores at once, but usually he just concentrated on one – or maybe Hunith had warned him off after the time he’d shattered her mirror while polishing it and washing the dinner dishes at the same time (never mind that he’d only lost concentration because Arthur had grabbed his arse, just to see if it would affect him, never mind that he’d repaired it again afterward -- a broken mirror was a broken mirror).

 

“Nimueh can find you on her own, if she wants,” Merlin pointed out.

 

“I know. I’m not worried that he’s working with her. Bayard hasn’t anything against magic, but he’s fanatical about respect for the Crown, he’d never sit with her killing my father in this way, even if they weren’t allies before. I can’t decide whether he’s sincere, is all, or if he’s going to try to kill me himself.”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

“Maybe he wants to try to win Camelot back from Nimueh for himself, and wants to make sure I never challenge him, or maybe he just wants to kill me because he didn’t like my father. There’s lots of possibilities, but he only needs one.”

 

As a test of faith, Arthur sent Gawain and Bors back with Jonah, who carried a response saying Arthur was amenable to talks if Bayard proved his intentions. The baker turned back to Ealdor, passing the knights like he didn’t know them, and they waited to see if he was followed.

 

He wasn’t, and he had instructions on how to know when there was a new message from Mercia, a complex system involving which colour laundry was hung to dry out a particular side of the inn. When the sign was raised, Arthur sent Gawain, who came back and said Bayard wanted to meet.

 

Arthur and Bayard circled each other as cautiously as a pair of unfamiliar wolves, Arthur unwilling to meet anywhere too close to Ealdor, but also not wanting to put himself on Bayard’s land should the summons prove treacherous. Finally they agreed on a small city just inside Cendred’s land, a day’s ride away. Arthur brought Gareth and Kay, Gaius because he had proven himself loyal and wise, Morgana because she’d absolutely insisted, and who knew, maybe she could distract Bayard with her breasts, and Merlin because magic was useful, not at all because he was ridiculous and attractive and had a smile that said things Arthur had never heard before.

 

They sneaked into the town a day before the meeting, armour packed into their saddlebags, and rented rooms at three different inns within sight of the meeting place, using the money from Morgana’s family crest, which they’d ended up barely needing after their integration into Ealdor. Arthur vowed to have another made for her in Camelot, grander than the first.

 

The knights and Arthur divided themselves among the rooms, devising a system of signs should they see any suspicious activity around the designated inn.

 

Wishes aside, honour demanded he have Morgana stay in his room, since he was technically her guardian, which he did really enjoy mentioning. Merlin slept down the street, but he showed up right after Arthur awoke, claiming a similar inability to sleep.

 

They both stood at the window, watching the low morning bustle around the inn, which seemed innocuous.

 

“What do you think?” Merlin asked.

 

“No way to be sure, but it feels fine.”

 

Merlin insisted on helping Arthur dress, layering on his full suit of armour and a mimicry of his old formal doublet Gwen had made. At one point Morgana, watching from the bed, made a comment about which one of them wore the trousers in the relationship, and Arthur was so shocked at her casual tone that he couldn’t even think up a good quip involving a future husband Arthur would choose from the pool of Albion’s most heinous. Merlin just laughed, flicked at the trailing tails of the doublet, and finished fastening the buckles on his elbow cop. Afterwards, he had to stay away from the window lest they catch the flash of the plate.

 

Finally, Kay flashed the ready sign, and Merlin announced that someone on a very nice horse was riding around the back of the building. Gareth, Kay and Gaius assembled on the street, all looking so formal amid the city’s bustle that Arthur almost felt they were back in Camelot.

 

Gareth and Kay insisted on walking first, which was ceremony, though Arthur would have preferred it be he at the head, in the most danger.

 

They found the inn empty save for a retinue of men dressed more for court than battle, which was as strong a gesture of goodwill as Bayard could have offered. Bayard himself sat in the middle, wearing a ponderous crown.

 

This was important, maybe more important for Camelot than anything Arthur had ever done. He had to be proud but not too proud, deferential but not weak, strong but not cocky.

 

Bayard stood to meet him, and if this was treachery, it ran deeper than Arthur could hope to ferret out, because he couldn’t imagine Bayard acknowledging as an equal one he meant to kill. Bayard stood very strong on formalities and ceremony and circumstance, his intentions could be read in how he treated Arthur.

 

They led with pleasantries, how was Mercia and very sorry for your loss, Uther was a good king despite all their disagreements, which was of course not something that could be said for that witch – and that was the end of the introduction, so they could all sit down and talk in earnest.

 

Bayard explained his position close to what Arthur had expected, that Uther had been King by succession, and a just one, that the sorcerers had handled their grievance poorly, and that wasn’t to be tolerated. He gave a brief description of what one of his spies had reported back from Camelot, and Arthur’s blood ran cold. Nimueh was executing people who had supported Uther in the purge.

 

Bayard concluded that the throne should stay in the Pendragon line – especially since, he had heard, Arthur had a sorcerer among his ranks?

 

Arthur almost laughed when he saw Bayard’s gaze travel across his company to land consideringly on Gaius, with his long white hair and venerable robes that somehow remained clean, though Merlin beside him was even now spattered with mud from their journey. Arthur nearly laughed again as he noticed that Merlin had a leaf caught in his hair, which made absolutely no sense.

 

“Gaius has been the court physician since before I was born,” he explained. “I think if he were a sorcerer, I would know, and my father would have, as well.” He tried to modulate his tone, hoping he didn’t seem too much like a green princeling with a chip on his shoulder and delusions of presence.

 

“That is a pity. Such an ally would have been a great advantage to us all.”

 

Arthur was surprised. “Mercia doesn’t have its own magic users?”

 

“We did,” Bayard said, “but the only ones who could have stood up to Nimueh is dead. Even the rest of them together would be no match for her, assuming they all get past that partner of hers, the one with the scars.”

 

“You have come up against her recently?”

 

“No, but we have clear records of the past, which I believe your father had destroyed – and I mean no disrespect, it’s no business of mine. I only mean that you have probably not heard of her power.”

 

“You are correct.” Arthur paused, looked at his companions each in turn. Gaius looked grave, Morgana was silent and evaluating, while Kay and Gareth both held themselves stonily stoic. He paused last on Merlin, tried to pose the important question without being too obvious. Merlin looked back at him, understood the implicit question. He nodded once. Arthur tilted his head to acknowledge, grateful beyond words.

 

“You will give me men? I have some, but not enough to hold the castle while we hunt her down.”

 

“I will,” said Bayard, “but what good will they do?”

 

“Cendred has backed her in the past. I intend to be quick about it, so she’ll not be able to wait for reinforcements even if she can somehow contact him instantaneously, but she may have some of his men there. You can leave her to me.”

 

“You are brave, young Prince Arthur, no one doubts that. In Mercia we have heard many tales of your valour and skill, but what do you hope to do against a woman who holds the power of life and death in her hands? Rumour holds she could kill you before you could get within striking distance even with a bow.”

 

Arthur sucked in a deep breath, still worried about sharing Merlin’s secret even after permission had been given. If this did turn out wrong, Merlin was probably at greater risk than any of the rest of them.

 

“King Bayard, you’ve demonstrated your trust in me several times over, so I am going to trust you with my – with _our_ \-- greatest secret. Gaius is in fact our court physician, but this is Merlin, formerly of Ealdor. He has in fact killed Edwin Muirden, and I have full confidence in his ability to defeat Nimueh, as well.”

 

 

* * *

 

Suddenly there was a flurry of preparations: Gareth and Kay sent galloping back to Ealdor to summon the rest of the citizens of Camelot, and any from Ealdor who wished to assist in the retaking of the city.

 

Everyone fit to travel came, even Hunith, who hugged Merlin tightly and then watched, proud, as Bayard’s magicians tested Merlin individually, then in groups, and then all together, and pronounced him stronger than they’d ever seen, perhaps strong enough even to defeat ageless Nimueh with all her secrets.

 

The biggest obstacle came when Arthur realised that Merlin actually did intend to face off against Nimueh, not as some part of a larger force but on his own. It wasn’t right, it was Arthur’s fight and not his. When he said as much, expecting resistance but fully intending to hold strong, Merlin surprised him by actually getting angry.

 

“What are you going to do, Arthur, when she takes one look at you and stops you in your steps? Perhaps you forgot Edwin could do that. I doubt he could have done it for long, but it only takes a few seconds. Do you think I’m going to let you fight her, and then, what, just watch when she kills you? Of course I’m not, Arthur! You’re going to be king, and I’m going to help you, and this is how I’m supposed to do it! It’s my destiny.”

 

“What does that even mean, your destiny? You’re not fighting my battles because Gaius told you some _flying lizard_ said it to him, that’s preposterous. He was probably sampling his stores that night, started hallucinating.”

 

“What? You’re so _ridiculous_, Arthur, and stop changing the subject! I believe him, it makes sense, there’s a reason that I’m like this, and it feels right, and don’t tell me you don’t know it, too. But all that aside, Arthur.” He put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, looked at him honest and direct. “Merlin the Sorcerer and Prince Arthur aside, if you think Merlin the boy from Ealdor is going to let Arthur the boy from Camelot die doing something Merlin can do, then you don’t know me at all.”

 

And that was that.

 

Arthur and Bayard worked out a plan together, based on what he’d already formulated and what Bayard’s spies could learn about the level of protection. They would move in quickly, stop for a rest a half day’s ride from the city itself, and then sneak in while everyone else was still sleeping.

 

He demanded that Merlin wear armour, even though he was probably more effective at protecting himself than the mail was, and he was preparing to face an opponent against whom it might as well be paper. Arthur taught him how to move in it, and made him practice more with the sword Tom had made him. Merlin complained, but acquiesced.

 

And then they were packed and moving out, hoping Nimueh hadn’t scryed them before Merlin had overheard someone discussing it and announced after a few thoughtful hours that he might be able to prevent it – something she might eventually realise was an actual threat to her, but still a better chance than if she knew exactly where they were at all times.

 

They were one hundred all told, fewer than Arthur would have liked, but as many as he could possibly imagine concealing outside Camelot. Besides, everyone who had any awareness of the proceedings knew they were all cover for Merlin, which Arthur still hated to acknowledge. Bayard had ended up supplying more horses than men, for the few mounts brought from Ealdor proved unfit for battle.

 

Bayard and Arthur each led half, with smaller groups led by knights of both nations. The few from Ealdor seemed to view it as a great mock battle for a festival, while Arthur’s knights were obviously eager, confident. Gwen and Morgana, whom Arthur had tried to forbid from coming, had argued effectively that they had a greater stake in the battle than almost everyone else – not to mention better fighting skills -- and rode in his first legion. They all brought little supplies, as this was to be a quick, do-or-die mission.

 

He’d managed to convince all but six of the men from Ealdor to stay behind, because it was obvious that for all of their enthusiasm, they’d be a disaster in manoeuvres and probably more of a danger to themselves than anyone else. If their suppositions regarding the number of soldiers Nimueh actually had were correct, then they didn’t need the numbers, and if they were wrong then they were most likely doomed anyway.

 

Merlin was grim but wired, snapping his fingers to create sparks and then subsiding into a brooding silence, until Arthur had pulled him into the forest while they stopped to water the horses, kissed him against a tree until the tension seeped from his limbs, and then taken both their cocks in his hand, swallowing Merlin’s gasps and feeling Merlin’s fingers pulling his hair.

 

Merlin couldn’t sleep when they stopped, saying that every time he closed his eyes, someone started calling to him. Arthur’s blood chilled; had she figured him out already? No, Merlin said, it was a male voice, summoning him to the city, but without any evil intent. They sat pressed tightly together until Merlin finally fell asleep, and Arthur lowered him to the ground, then continued vigil, the summer air around them swollen with insect calls.

 

This was different than the night before Kanen, and not just because of the way things stood between him and Merlin. The stakes here were higher: his whole nation, and their opponent a total unknown whom some gossip called immortal, though Gaius had sworn this untrue. It went against everything he’d been taught and his own feelings to just throw Merlin into battle like this; it hadn’t ever sat well and it tempered all the anticipation of battle, of personally overseeing the defeat of Nimueh.

 

Everything reversed for the last push: Merlin’s countrymen were finally silent, eyes wide and mouths pale lines, while Merlin’s face hardened but his eyes grew lighter. His back was straight on the horse, and more than once Arthur noticed some volunteer from Ealdor taking a look at him and then steeling themselves in turn.

 

They organised into four tight phalanxes, and Arthur was careful to keep the six from Ealdor near the back of his own. The horses were a little more restless than he’d expected, he wondered if they could feel the tinge of black magic. He stationed Merlin at his side, a little back, because he honestly had no idea where else to put him. He obviously didn’t belong in the back.

 

They avoided the main entry of the castle where the city itself nestled in its shadow, choosing instead the back side, where Arthur planned to lead Merlin and few of his knights in through a small tunnel that went through the quartermaster’s storerooms, the key still swinging from his belt.

 

That plan went, though, as soon as he heard the familiar eerie whistle.

 

“Shields!” he yelled, grabbing Merlin’s hand to pull him under his shield and hoping Bayard could hear him, or had recognised the sound himself. Only the whizzing thunks never came. He looked up to see Merlin still sitting up on his horse, a tiny moue of concentration on his face and his eyes shining. He waved a hand, and the arrows clattered to the ground all at once.

 

A few dozen arrows, which boded well for Arthur’s hope that there was only a skeleton contingent here. He could see them now, high on the ramparts, watching them right back, bows slowly dropping. Hesitation, shock -- both expressions he liked to see in his opponents.

 

Bayard rode to them. “How did you do that, Merlin?”

 

“Stopping the arrows? Well, all I did was create a shield, I didn’t try to stop them all individually or anything too complicated.”

 

Bayard nodded quickly. He had an excellent tactical head; Arthur was glad they weren’t enemies. “You can keep it up?”

 

“So long as they keep the volleys small and we stay close together, I think so.”

 

“Good. Arthur, our secret is out, but they’ve obviously got no idea what to do. There’s no reason to sneak around, I say we charge and do what we can.”

 

_Before Nimueh shows up_, he didn’t say, but Arthur knew that for all the demonstrations, Bayard wasn’t quite sure Merlin could do it.

 

“Charge, then,” he agreed, “but we’re still going through the passage. Even if they notice us – and if you engage them well, they won’t – they won’t know where it leads. It’s the best way to find Nimueh.”

 

“What if she joins the fight?” Merlin asked.

 

“If you see her, Bayard, blow your horn. I’ll know where you are.”

 

Bayard nodded again, just once. “It’s a good plan.”

 

“I’ll let you know. My men will listen to you.”

 

He looked back at the men, and was pleased to see that none looked frightened, not even Tor from Ealdor, whom he hadn’t expected much from and had surreptitiously assigned Bors the task of watching over.

 

“I hope you’ve noticed them, up there,” he said, pitching his voice loud. “They weren’t expecting us, and now they’ve no idea what to do. They don’t know and they don’t even really care, so even if there’s 400 of them in there, we’ve got the advantage.” He looked at them all in turn, and they watched him back expectantly, even Bayard’s men intent.

 

“It’s time to press it!” he yelled, pressed in his heels and charged. Bayard was doing the same from the corner of his eye. He could hear the men behind him taking up the cry, until it was the loudest thing he’d ever heard, louder than the roar of the crowd when he won a tournament, louder than a storm crashing above the castle.

 

Taking them in through the castle’s main gate was risky, but it was the best way to draw the attention of the whole enemy force, so Arthur led them around the town, feeling the shock of each hoof falling through the rhythmic roil of Aherne’s muscles, hitting hard in his very bones. Merlin was silent, but didn’t look scared.

 

When he and Merlin drew off, Cador and Bors followed as planned, and the rest integrated quickly into Bayard’s force. He wanted to be there, putting himself into battle with them, but he knew this was more important, and that no one else knew the way.

 

He’d forgotten about the grate, but as soon as he announced that he could get it off with rope and Aherne, Merlin rolled his eyes, raised his arm, and the whole thing collapsed inward with a shower of sparks.

 

“Flashy,” said Arthur.

 

“I learned from the best.”

 

Arthur preened. “I suppose you did, at that,” he said, and Merlin rolled his eyes again, but his face definitely looked lighter.

 

As expected, the passage was dark and damp but undisturbed, as was the quartermaster’s office when they broke in. Once they had all climbed out, Merlin looked around expectantly. Had he expected there to be signs? Proceed here to battle evil sorceress?

 

Apparently not, because he narrowed his eyes, cocked his head, and then started walking. “This way,” he said.

 

Arthur drew his sword and followed through the familiar corridors, Cador and Bors silent in the rear. He kept expecting things to be different, to have shifted to fit the new mistress, but no, there was the chip in a stone where Morgana had tried to brain him with a candelabra after he’d made fun of the colour of her dress, there was the tapestry his father had commissioned for his thirty-second birthday, something he’d expected she would have immediately destroyed; it depicted the improvements Uther’s purge had made on Camelot.

 

Merlin’s eyes were shining like two suns and his step was quick.

 

“Can’t she tell you’re tracking her?” Arthur asked.

 

Merlin shook his head, but didn’t slow. “I’m surprised, actually, I’d have thought she would have investigated Edwin’s death.”

 

“Maybe she didn’t care,” Arthur said.

 

“By Gaius’ description, she wouldn’t be given to that sort of hubris, but maybe… If she felt too triumphant over the death of your father.” He slowed. “Sorry.”

 

“It happened,” said Arthur. “Let’s go.” They passed high above the courtyard, and he knew he couldn’t stop, but looking out as they went by was enough to show him that Bayard was indeed winning, surrounding a small knot of men in Cendred’s livery. Nimueh wasn’t there, though, and that was worrying.

 

“Where are we going?” Merlin whispered.

 

Arthur considered. “Somewhere central. Maybe my father’s throne room, it would make sense for her to be there if she’s still just gloating.” He clenched his jaw to keep the rush of anger at that thought down.

 

“Are we close?” Merlin’s voice was tense.

 

“Very, after the long corridor on the left you can’t miss it.”

 

“All right,” Merlin said, and took a huge breath. “All right.” His eyes passed over all three of them, Arthur and Bors and Cador. “You’ll be fine in a minute.”

 

Before Arthur could ask for explanation of this cryptic statement, Merlin’s eyes flashed golden, and then with one last, sad look, he took off running.

 

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, and when he moved to follow his whole body lurched and he almost fell; his feet were stuck to the floor. The sounds behind him made it clear Cador and Bors were similarly affected. “Merlin!”

 

But Merlin didn’t look back, and when Arthur finally could move again – perhaps just a minute, as Merlin had said, but it feel more like an hour, the faint sounds of battle coming from the courtyard but nothing from Merlin, like the castle had swallowed him whole – he sprinted towards the throne room, not bothering to check on the state of Bors or Cador.

 

 

* * *

 

Except, after the whole production and the horrifying feeling that the betrayed look in Arthur’s eyes meant that even if Merlin survived, Arthur would never speak to him again, she wasn’t in the throne room. She obviously had been; there were several great tables and the throne itself, all destroyed, but no sign of her.

 

He could feel her, though, and it led him out the ornamentally large doors at the opposite end, which, if his sense of direction – admittedly not the best – were correct, would soon take him outside into the courtyard.

 

And there she was, standing on the drawbridge, so unexpected a figure that he might have run right by her if not for the look on her face, unlined but not, absolutely not young.

 

“Merlin,” she said, lips curved in a terrible mockery of a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

 

He froze, mind running through dozens of things he could do, or at least thought he could do, with magic, and also the sudden thought that he wasn’t sure he could just attack her, despite all her prior deeds.

 

“When I first saw you kill Edwin, I thought you were just another nuisance,” she said, voice cloying and falsely sweet, “but then I learned otherwise. And just imagine if I’d killed you before I’d known!”

 

Judging by the look on her face, she wouldn’t have cared very much.

 

“So I’ve been waiting for you, because I realised how much we can do together. Why, we could rule the whole world, you and I. You can keep Arthur if you’d like, I won’t even kill him.”

 

“No,” he said, final, “you won’t kill him. You won’t kill anyone else, ever.” He thrust out a hand, sent something at her that he hadn’t used before, something gold and powerful, but she just looked at it archly, held out her own hand and absorbed it, her hand shining with it.

 

“Childish tricks, Merlin,” she chided. “Maybe you aren’t so much after all.” Her hand was rotating, slowly, shining brighter with each revolution and starting to spark.

 

He thought quickly; this wasn’t something he was familiar with from his brief training, and he wouldn’t have much time to react.

 

It turned out she used fire, as well, only a huge gouting ball of it that he barely dodged. It crashed into the castle wall like a missile, and he watched it tear great hunks from the stone before it was extinguished.

 

That was the second that would cost him, because in that time while he was trying to analyze it, she’d formed another, and it was practically on him by the time he noticed it. He flung up a shield, but it was already almost through, and it still sent him flying back into the wooden beams of the bridge with a flaring pain searing over his chest. He raised a hand to feel it, but the heat stopped him before he actually touched himself, and he smelled burning flesh.

 

Someone was calling his name, was that what happened when you died? Someone calls your name and you follow it and follow it?

 

Only someone else was talking. It was Nimueh, and she was saying a name.

 

Arthur. She was saying _Arthur_. _I even told him I wouldn’t kill you_, she was saying.

 

He rolled over, enough to see her, facing away from him, dark hair long down her back and hands up. Arthur had his sword out, and he was yelling, and then, as Merlin watched, he rushed at her. She raised another hand, and he flung up his shield just in time to intercept the fireball she sent. He dropped it, and Merlin could see it searing black into the wood of the bridge.

 

_It’s not your destiny to die at my hand, boy_, she said, _but don’t tempt me. I’m sure Albion could find another saviour_. Arthur was crouching down, she was doing something to him, he was grimacing in pain or effort, he couldn’t tell.

 

Merlin stood. He looked up at the sky, called it roiling and black with clouds, and it became so. He narrowed his focus, drew together the currents carried in the clouds, directed them down with his eyes.

 

She realised it, just before, turned to look at him, horrified, but then it was on her, and she didn’t even have time to scream.

 

And she was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

The mark on his chest healed into a slight, smooth scar, which shone when the light hit in a certain manner. Sometimes Arthur would touch it, lay his palm broad across it, and his eyes would narrow seriously. He wouldn’t say anything like “I thought you were dead,” or “I was so worried,” or “I thought _I_ would die,” but Merlin knew them because he’d said as much and more then, hot on the drawbridge of his castle.

 

The first night Merlin tried to sleep, salve spread thick and smelly over his chest and Arthur’s hand wrapped possessively around one arm, he couldn’t even close his eyes for the voice calling his name. It led him down, down into the bowels of the castle, where he wasn’t very surprised to meet Gaius’ dragon, huger than he’d imagined and full of vacuities about Arthur and the future. It seemed nonplussed by Merlin’s short description of recent events, but generally pleased, especially when he learned that Arthur knew about Merlin’s magic. It would be much more pleased later, after Arthur, who’d never really liked to participate in its discussions of high kings and destiny, finally set it free.

 

Arthur was coronated quickly, a little awkwardly because there was no one to give him the crown and read him his vows, so he did it himself, taking his father’s crown from a case held out by Geoffrey of Monmouth and speaking his promises to the people of Camelot. Merlin watched and didn’t know his place in the court, no one did, but it wasn’t his moment, and for the most part he didn’t care.

 

Arthur listened grimly to the stories of every citizen of Camelot who wanted to tell them, stories about how Nimueh had mostly left them alone, but Edwin had enjoyed tracking down people who were alive when his parents had been killed, claiming they had been in the crowd and killing them for pleasure. Arthur listened to these tales and every complaint of deprivation and fear, and he did his best to right them all. Merlin helped when he could, worried all the while that he would burst from pride and love.

 

Merlin worried constantly over Hunith’s decision to stay in Ealdor, until Arthur informed him one day that he’d sent a message to Cendred, stating that he was fully aware of Cendred’s part in his father’s death, that Arthur would take over Ealdor and much of the surrounding land as compensation, and if Cendred wanted to press the matter, well then he could always come and talk it over with the man who’d killed Nimueh. No response ever came, and Ealdor flew Camelot’s dragon proudly.

 

Sometimes Arthur would disappear down to the crypt, where Geoffrey of Monmouth had somehow ensured that Uther was placed. Merlin usually left him alone, chose instead to explore the halls of the castle and the city below, which quickly rebounded into bustle and merry chaos. People seemed to know who he was, and sometimes they would stop him with a request involving magic. Usually they involved some sort of healing, in which case he sent them to Gaius, or repairing something that had been damaged during Nimueh’s short hegemony or Bayard’s battle, in which case he sent them to the quartermaster, for Arthur had ordered that all such things would be repaired free of charge.

 

It was strange, of course, and a little overwhelming after the slow daily routine of Ealdor, but he loved it all, especially at night when he could look out the window of his rooms and see the lights shining below, choppy and shimmering in the moat. Especially during the day when he walked among the crowds in the marketplace and heard them hailing the King, especially watching Gaius pore over his books to diagnose some obscure malady, especially sneaking into the kitchens and stealing dinner when Arthur was kept late by councils planning the slow reconstruction of the castle and the kingdom. Most especially Arthur himself, who still suffered some of the faults of youth, but who was trying so hard and proving almost daily the depth of his heart and the strength of his character.

 

The ranks of the knights had been devastated. Many had died during the first attack, and Nimueh had visited some magical disease upon the rest through their water. Arthur advertised, and when one of the first – and best – men to answer was a strong, capable, honourable man whose sole fault was being born a peasant, it didn’t take long for that rule to be stricken from the code.

 

He devoted more time to studying from Gaius’ book, learning the words for what he could already do with his hands or just his thoughts. Sometimes he used them, sometimes he didn’t, and there wasn’t generally a difference. Gaius seemed to like it when he demonstrated that he was studying, though, and soon the book presented possibilities that hadn’t occurred to him, spells to heal and conceal and to make crops flourish. Arthur would permit almost anything that would benefit Camelot, let him enrich the harvest as much as he wanted, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with some spells, which he said made him feel like he was getting an unfair advantage.

 

Time was passing quickly, days of sun and festivities shortening to leaves cracking sharp under his feet and then deep prints in the snow, creating a model of the castle in the courtyard on which a tiny Arthur could be seen patrolling the battlements and the dragon banners flapped in the breeze. Threats came, of course, but soon there proved to be nothing they couldn’t work together to dispel. Merlin learned to shape whatever he wanted out of his two hands, whether it be for amusement or defence, just as Arthur learned how to balance finances and mediate land disputes and appoint trustworthy commissioners. He worked so hard at it that sometimes he forgot to eat or find time to sleep, and Merlin was more pleased to watch it all than he’d ever thought possible.

 

Sometimes Morgana would watch them like she was seeing something else, something more than was there, but she never responded to Merlin’s querying looks or even when he asked her outright. On occasion he would catch her watching him while he practised magic, her eyes narrowed in concentration, but she always left before he could address her.

 

Not to say that she was distant, or unhappy. On the contrary, she took very well to Arthur’s new court, and became something of an alternative hero to the common folk for the way she skipped right around the pretensions of the nobility and did whatever she wanted. She took to wearing the new pendant Arthur had made with her family’s coat of arms.

 

He couldn’t find a good time to go back and visit his mother until autumn. There had been the blight on the crops, which only he had been able to fix. Then the first attempt on Arthur’s life, just a man with a dagger who tried to gut him on his way back from Tom’s one day, but afterwards Merlin didn’t even think about leaving for a whole month.

 

When he finally announced his intentions, Arthur thought about it for a moment and then said he would be coming, as well, which Merlin of course immediately protested. Not because he didn’t want Arthur along, absolutely not – and he said as much to Arthur’s hurt expression – he just didn’t want Arthur to be accused of shirking his responsibilities to gallivant about the realm or something else ridiculous and unfounded.

 

He’d quickly learned that ridiculous and unfounded were not insurmountable obstacles for the court gossips, largely composed of a set of minor nobles who’d disappeared shortly after Uther’s murder and then started filtering back in with flimsy excuses about overseeing manors once word got around that Arthur was king. They were already convinced that Merlin displayed far too much levity for a court sorcerer, which Merlin had worried about for the time it took him to realise that not a one of them had ever been to a court with a sorcerer. Apparently, they “just knew.”

 

It became clear that Arthur was coming despite any objections Merlin threw at him, but he did agree to a compromise, saying that he would ride down, say hello and then leave again.

 

Merlin wasn"t too surprised when, about a mile out, Arthur suddenly dismounted, claiming Aherne had a slight limp and that he would need at least one night to recover. All the dubious looks Merlin could summon were ineffective, so Hunith ended up with two guests. Everyone was so happy to see them that it was probably for the best, after all.

 

That night he spoke to his mother for a long time, telling her all about Camelot while Arthur listened to everyone trying to talk over everyone else to give him the summary of every single thing that had passed in the short months since he"d left.

 

Merlin was in the middle of describing what Morgana had done to the first of the same court gossips who had accused her of impropriety when his mother placed her hand, gentle and cool, on his cheek and said, “I’m glad you’ve found where you belong, Merlin.”

 

Spring came with a message from Bayard, asking for help with a skirmish along with his southern border, which Arthur of course obliged. Merlin analyzed the cautious stares of the captured men. They were intimidated by Merlin’s powers, but overawed by Arthur, shining in his armour, looking like the morning’s battle had been nothing more than a refreshing exercise. When they surrendered to Bayard, most looked at Arthur before they finished the vows.

 

He brought it up later, standing in only his trousers at Arthur’s window and looking down at the familiar bustle of the courtyard. All he got in response was a sort of uncomfortable scoff and something about of course, who would look at old, battle-hardened Bayard when Arthur was standing next to him anyway? True, but obviously a change of subject.

 

He pressed it. “That’s not what I mean. They’ve heard about you, they respect you, certainly more than Bayard and probably more than their own king. And everything they’ve heard, Arthur, it’s true.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Arthur pointed out, coming to stand next to him. He put one hand on his own hip and slung the other arm, casual but caring, around Merlin"s waist. “Maybe they’ve heard I bed a dozen virgins a day -- who all throw themselves at me willingly -- and then I follow it up by hunting a dragon for dinner.”

 

“Been spreading tales about yourself again, have you?” Merlin asked, playful and leaning in to poke Arthur in the ribs.

 

Arthur grabbed him in a headlock, pulled him back flush against his chest, also bare, and bit his neck. “Maybe it’s true,” he said, voice vibrating again Merlin’s pulse.

 

Merlin tested, confirmed that he couldn’t break the hold. “I don’t think so, I’ve set a tracking spell on your prick -- I’d definitely know.” He decided to play dirty, grabbed straight for Arthur’s crotch and squeezed, but Arthur didn’t let go. Quite the opposite, in fact, he tightened his arms, moaned against Merlin’s neck, and Merlin could just barely see his eyes flutter shut.

 

All there was left to do was move a bit to the side, giving his hand room to slide under Arthur’s clothes, ease all the laces open with a slight magical twitch and then keep going down. Arthur sighed out soft against his neck, moving his arms to let one hand run, large, up and down his ribs, in ever-lengthening strokes that were still too light and teasing. In response, Merlin stilled his hand, leaving it a slack circle in which he could feel Arthur hardening further. Only the forefinger travelled in a small arc, catching the head near his middle knuckle on each sweep.

 

Arthur didn’t move them, and Merlin lay still in his loose grip, memorising the way Arthur’s breath puffed out a little harder with each revolution of his finger, a difference so slight he wouldn’t have noticed if they hadn’t otherwise been so silent and still.

 

But soon it wasn’t enough, Arthur’s breath started hitching out faster but his hand still wasn’t moving enough, so Merlin opened his eyes, leaned until Arthur walked backwards with him towards the bed.

 

He turned once he he knew it was close, pressed his hands against Arthur’s sides and pushed him until he backed right into it, then kept pushing, so that Arthur hit the baseboard awkwardly and stumbled back blindly, landing with a thump and smiling, half his legs still hanging over the side.

 

Merlin followed immediately -- definitely didn’t give him time to recover. He clambered up the ridiculously high mattress, settling so that he could easily press his legs into the bed on either side of Arthur’s hips, curl his fingers over Arthur’s chest and move his head down, kissing him deep and direct, bringing his hands up to spread possessive over Arthur’s jaw and neck, to try to express the overwhelming feelings that seemed like they were about to spill out from his very skin.

 

Arthur raised his legs, pushed with his heels off the bed frame so they slid back, Merlin’s toes catching on the rich bedding, until Arthur could spread his legs over the mattress. He pressed his hands lightly in the crook of Merlin’s knees, a quick rub at the soft skin before he pressed harder and ran them all the way up his thighs and settled them right in the waistband of his trousers, knuckles denting lightly into the skin at his hips.

 

It was such a thing to think of: Merlin settled into this huge bed, Arthur -- _Arthur, Arthur_ \-- under him, leveraging his head against the mattress so he could tilt his jaw up and kiss him harder, lick in smoother, and just starting to stretch his thumbs over to trail feathery touches over Merlin’s crotch. Merlin couldn’t decide which way to push for more, so he made an arbitrary decision and grabbed one of Arthur’s hands, pulling it down and cupping it around his cock, so that he felt it twitch and fill. He moaned into Arthur’s mouth.

 

Arthur sucked in a great noisy gulp of air through his nose, ran one hand firm along Merlin’s skin, skittering around Merlin’s neck until the fingers hooked over his chin. Merlin moved his head back, just enough that he could take the first two into his mouth, taste the salty pads at the tips with the flat of his tongue, and then suck them in deeper. Arthur made a soft little needy noise at the back of his throat, eyes dark and intense and wondering, infinite. Merlin met them with his own, kept looking as he pushed down with his thighs, so that his knees slid out further on the sheets and their hips pressed together in sudden, sharp relief. He watched as Arthur’s eyes stilled, as the pupils narrowed and narrowed, focused, just on him.

 

“Merlin, oh gods, Merlin,” Arthur gasped. He slipped his fingers past his Merlin’s lips, sliding his index fingers slick across the bottom one, once, then down in a wet trail that Merlin could feel leaving goose bumps, leaving his nipples peaked, until they went right under his clothes. Arthur angled his wrists up, so Merlin’s trousers slipped down, but Merlin was whimpering needy into his mouth, rocking his hips almost reflexively, didn’t want to bother with the time and separation that disrobing required. He just wanted to stay like this, all short, purposeful jabs that left them hissing through clenched teeth into each other’s mouth.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, a curious Arthur-like mix of pleading and chastising, and he darted his head forward quickly to seize Merlin’s lower lip in the teeth.

 

“Off,” he growled, tightening his hands over Merlin’s arse. Merlin shivered at the soft feeling of Arthur’s lips, tightening around his own at the consonant. He finally chose to oblige, but in a sharp retaliatory surge of magic, everything gone all at once, and sudden shock of bare, smooth skin, warm where there’d just been unsatisfying cloth before made them both gasp, made Arthur push up against him.

 

Arthur’s cock was full, the end slick with a trail that cooled rapidly on Merlin’s skin, and he knew that this would’ve been enough, to thrust together, sweaty, eyes locked, figuring out the right rhythm – until they lost it again at the end.

 

There were other options, of course: he could manoeuvre until Arthur’s knees were wide apart and open him up slowly, not finish it until his sac was drawn up tight already, just a few strokes until he couldn’t take any more and his calves ached the next day; he could flip Arthur over and just bottom out immediately, hot and tight and so sudden it was almost too much and he had to drop his head to rest on Arthur’s shoulder blade, wait it out for a moment; none of the above, just his mouth and cleverly applied fingertips.

 

But that wasn’t tonight’s plan, or at least not the plan that had just crystallised in his mind and was now imperative. Some of it he could do on his own. He could summon – and how useful a trick, that – the oil from wherever they’d last used it, could get it unnoticed into his hand, so all he had left to do was lean in, hold Arthur’s hips down with a little pressure, work his hand once, twice -- Arthur all unexpecting, gasped breath and spasmed stomach muscles and rounded eyes. He could use it on himself, just a little bit, so that he was ready to brace his hands on Arthur’s thighs behind him and slide all the way down Arthur’s cock, watch his face go slack and feel the involuntary jerk of his hips, feel it all the way inside him.

 

And if he kept to a certain angle, he could even feel the slight jutting variance of the head, feel it all the way up and feel it brush the spot deep inside him that made lips part and his eyes roll back, even though the point of this had been to watch Arthur, whose face was flushed dark, eyes brilliant blue points shining glassily, watching him right back. His legs were flexing rhythmically under Merlin’s hands, hips moving in tiny upward shifts.

 

Of course, Arthur never had been one to comply with others’ plans. His hands hovered, trembling, for a long moment, before he anchored them firm at Merlin’s hips. He made a deep, hungry noise in the back of his throat, grabbed on tight, and then Merlin lost all contact with gravity for a flash of a second, until it was him on his back in the bed, Arthur over him eclipsing everything, backlit. Merlin could see the silhouette of all the muscles taut down his arms as he held himself – held them both – still for an instant, before he hiked both his knees up on bed. Merlin gladly raised his legs a little higher, spread them a little wider, felt Arthur a little deeper. Arthur’s arms held along his sides, hands spread huge over his back. He looked up at Merlin from under his eyelashes for a second, then let his head drop down. It afforded Merlin an excellent view of the whole plane of his back, all the muscles that tensed as he began to thrust in earnest.

 

And perhaps Arthur had a plan of his own, one that went something along the lines of: do everything just right, leave Merlin practically unable to breathe, convinced he’s seconds away from coming, and then let up a bit, just enough to raise everything to a higher plateau, then let it run for a while. Put your hands everywhere, absolutely everywhere, except right where Merlin wants them most. Wait until the magic is coalescing golden in Merlin’s eyes, until he’s gearing up to flip you back over and finish it himself.

 

Then apparently it was time to settle in for the final push. Arthur levered himself up on one elbow, bringing the other hand down to wrap firmly around Merlin’s cock and pull. Merlin couldn’t tell whose breath was echoing in his ears, only that it was speeding up with Arthur’s precise thrusts. Merlin looked at Arthur, at his fingertips were digging possessive into Merlin’s sides and the long muscle arched in his thigh, and finally at his mouth open hot over Merlin’s chest, teeth bared and biting slightly, as if to keep his place. That was the end of it, the final crest, white in his eyes so he could only hear it as Arthur gasped with him, a long moment of incredible tension between them before they relaxed, and he couldn’t decide whether he was thinking _this is it, this is enough_ or _I’ll never get enough_.

 

He thought, later, after he’d woken up and realised he’d drooled into Arthur’s hair while they slept, that maybe he _couldn’t_ get enough, that maybe it was for the best they both had so much to do, or otherwise they’d just lie about in bed until the frame collapsed under them.

 

Merlin knew that Arthur was uncomfortable with all his talk of High King and conquering all the land they could walk upon, but he also knew that Arthur was seriously considering it, that every day they saw the successes he was having in Camelot, he was comparing them to what he’d seen and heard of other lands. He was – they were – still so young, but he was thinking in the long term, and Merlin could live with that.

 

That was the thing about destiny, you know. It could wait.


End file.
